My Mother's Daughter
by Celica60
Summary: We aren't always the people we wish to be. We don't always live the lives we wish to live. PreBFF. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**My Mother's Daughter**

Summary: We aren't always the people we wish to be. We don't always live the lives we wish to live. Pre-_BFF._

Rating: Teen for mild language and adult situations.

Author's Note: Certainly everyone saw this title and thought, "Oooh! A story about Anna!" The disappointment...how it stings.

This story takes place the summer before _BFF_ and _MLTS._ It should serve to better explain some of the events in both stories.

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I've only been back from Fiji for nine hours when the telephone rings, waking me from a wonderful, welcome deep sleep. I don't even raise my face from the pillow. I leave it there, buried in the down and reach my arm over to the night table where the telephone sits. I fumble with the receiver and bring it to my ear.

"This better be an emergency," I grumble.

"It is," comes Julie's voice, distinctive in its rich huskiness. "I'm bored."

"And I was on a plane for two hundred hours," I reply, finally opening my eyes. I reach over and turn the alarm clock around. It's not even ten-thirty! "Do you know what time it is?" I demand. "It's ten in the morning, Julie Stern. Ten in the morning during summer vacation! My parents and I didn't get home until midnight, you know."

"I did not know that, Miss Blume. You only told me you'd be home on June ninth. It's June ninth, so I called. It could have been worse. I've been awake and dressed since seven. I had to feed the Bernsteins' cats."

I roll over onto my back and rub my eyes. "Have Emily and her parents left on their so-called vacation then?" I ask. The Bernsteins, being the adventurous and thrill-seeking people they are, decided to spend their annual summer vacation driving Emily all over the East Coast, visiting every college she intends to apply to in the fall. If I were Emily, I'd feel gipped. Last summer, her parents took her to Austria. At least that was a real vacation. I wouldn't want to spend a week trapped in a car with Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein. Actually, I wouldn't want to spend a week trapped in a car with Emily either.

"Yes, they left three days ago. They'll be back sometime next week. In the meantime, I'm feeding their cats, except I think the cats are depressed. I think they miss the Bernsteins and - "

"Julie, the Bernsteins have five cats," I interrupt her. "The cats are not lonely or depressed. And why are the Bernsteins letting you in their house unsupervised? Didn't you and Paul change their answering machine message when they went to Atlanta over spring break?"

"We promised not to do that again. Mr. Bernstein's mother didn't find our Passover jingle amusing. Personally, I thought it was very informative."

"Yeah, you know a lot about Passover," I agree. I rub my eyes again. "Were you calling for a reason?"

"Certainly. I wanted to tell you that I really missed your pool. Oh, yeah, I missed you, too."

"Thanks ever so much."

"You're ever so welcome," Julie replies, cheerfully. "Do you want to come over? I'm bored."

I glance over at the clock and sigh. I'm already awake. "Yes. I'll come over," I agree, grudgingly. "I need at least an hour and a half to get ready."

"An hour and a half!" Julie shrieks. "You're worse than Emily!"

"How long does it take you to get ready?"

"Oh, fifteen minutes. Twenty, if I wash my hair."

"That explains a lot."

"Oh! Thanks ever so much! I'll see you at noon. Ta-ta, Miss Blume!"

"Don't call me..." I begin to snap, but Julie's already hung up. I roll my eyes and replace the phone on its hook. I sigh again and slowly swing my long legs over the side of the bed. I yawn and stretch. I begin my morning routine. I never miss it. No matter where I am, no matter how late I wake up. One hundred crunches followed by one hundred push-ups. By the end of the summer, I should be up to one-fifty of each. It's important to stay fit. It's important to look your best.

When I finish, I head downstairs to the kitchen. My parents have already left for work. They commute to New York and catch the six a.m. train every day. They're always gone before I wake up. Sometimes, they're not home until I'm getting ready for bed. And sometimes, they don't come home at all. It's always been like this, my entire life. It's just the way things are. Downstairs, I find a note taped to the fridge. It's in my mother's hurried, partially illegible handwriting. It reads:

_Grace! Please do the following - _

_1) Buy stamps and post bills on the counter by the bread box. _

_2) Have my prescription refilled by those awful people. _

_3) Take clothes to the dry cleaner. Clothes are still in suitcases. Check tags for 'dry clean only'. Please tell me you can manage to do this! (It's not that hard!) _

_4) I forgot number four. _

_- Your mother_

I roll my eyes and tape the note back on the fridge. The wit of my mother's notes astounds me. I open the fridge and remove the orange juice and a carton of strawberry yogurt. Our housekeeper, Marta, restocked the fridge and pantry before we returned from Fiji. Marta comes five days a week, usually in the early afternoons. She comes and goes as she pleases. A lot like me.

I lean against the counter while I eat my yogurt. It's quiet in the house, which isn't unusual. It's always quiet unless I personally fill it with noise. I would like to spend the day alone, swimming laps in the pool, and decompressing. But that's basically what I've done for the last six days. In March, my parents said, "Where do you want to go for summer vacation?" And I said, "Fiji" because it was the first place that popped into my head. So, my mother called the travel agent, who booked two bungalows at a resort on the Coral Coast. Vacations with my parents are always extravagant, but they're never very fun. My parents don't quite grasp the full concept of a vacation. To them, a vacation means banging away on their laptops in a new location. There's a lot of sitting around involved during vacations with my parents. And since they swear the moment I step outside Stoneybrook without an adult, I'll be promptly mugged, raped, and murdered, there isn't much freedom during vacations either.

So, it's time to start the real vacation. Summer vacation. And I intend to jump in feet first.

I toss my empty yogurt carton into the trash can and finish the rest of my orange juice. Then I take the telephone off the hook on the wall and dial my grandmother's phone number. Gran is my mother's mother. They hate each other.

"It's Grace," I say when Gran answers.

"Grace!" she cries, breathlessly. "I was waiting until noon to call. I figured you'd still be asleep."

"I would be," I reply. "But I'm awake now. What are you doing? Have you been taping _General Hospital_ for me?"

"Of course and I won't even spoil any of the scandalous secrets for you. As for what I'm doing, I'm not doing anything. What are you doing? Would you like to come for a late lunch?"

"Sure," I say and check the wall clock. It's almost ten forty-five. "I have to run errands for Mom though and I promised to go over to my friend Julie's house. Is two o' clock good for you?"

"It's perfect. I'll see you then. I'm looking forward to hearing all about Fiji."

"All right. I'll see you at two."

I hang up and run upstairs to take a shower. I shower in less time than usual. Twenty minutes at the most. Leisurely showers are one of life's greatest pleasures. How Julie Stern thinks five minutes is a substantial amount of shower time is totally beyond me. Of course, Julie Stern also occasionally wears her brother's clothes to school, so nothing she does should surprise me. It takes another thirty minutes to do my hair and make-up. I have to dry my hair completely and I have a lot of hair. It's thick and dark red and falls halfway down my back. It's one of the things I like most about myself. That and my complexion, which is creamy white and clear. I never get pimples. When my hair is dry, I pull it back in a ponytail and roll my hair in hot curlers. They weigh the back of my head down and it's a struggle to balance correctly to put on my make-up. I decide on light lilac-colored eyeshadow for today. I trace my eyelids carefully and steadily with the eyeshadow crayon, then trace under my eyes with black liquid liner. I select a carnation pink lipstick. When everything is done and perfect, in straight lines and arches, I unroll my hair from the curlers and shake the new curls before running gently through them with a comb.

My hair looks fabulous.

Of course.

In my bedroom, I decide on a pair of white shorts and new white sandals I bought in Fiji. They have string thin straps and low heels and buckle at the back of the ankle. Then I pull on a sleeveless lilac-colored blouse that matches my eyeshadow almost precisely. The blouse is a v-neck with lilac-colored buttons running down the sides. Stacey McGill and I found the blouse at Lear's department store in May and fought over who got to buy it. I won. I'm sure Stacey's over the sting of that disappointment by now.

My father telephones just as I'm about to walk out the front door. My parents call sporadically throughout the day. They never really have anything to say.

"You're awake," Dad says without a greeting. He sounds surprised. "Aren't you jet-lagged?"

"Extremely so," I answer. "Aren't you?"

"No. I'm too busy to be jet-lagged. This place is a mess. I leave for less than a week and the entire department falls apart. And your mother's upstairs throwing some kind of fit, apparently. Lorraine from accounting called to tell me."

"Why is she throwing a fit?" I ask. It isn't much of a shock. My mother's often in a snit about something or someone.

"Her assistant quit while we were away."

"Made a clean getaway?"

Dad chuckles. "Yes. I don't know why she's so upset. She claimed that assistant was an idiot and a whore just like all her other assistants."

I roll my eyes. According to my mother, every female in a secretarial position is either a whore or desires to become someone's whore. That is why my father's assistant is male. "Have you been up there?" I ask Dad.

"No. I'm not crazy."

I laugh and then there's silence. We've run out of things to say.

"Well...I'm going over to Julie's," I finally tell him.

"Have fun, Grace."

Dad and I hang up. I leave through the kitchen into the garage, where my white Corvette is parked. My parents bought the car for my sixteenth birthday last year. They asked, "What kind of car do you want" and I said "A Corvette". So, we drove to New Haven and I picked one out. It's white with black interior. It's the best looking car at Stoneybrook High. Everyone's envious. It's not conceited to admit that. It's simply the truth.

First, I drive downtown and drop off my parents' dry cleaning, which I was _perfectly_ capable of sorting myself. Then I stop off at the post office to buy stamps from Mr. Stern and afterward, walk across the street to the Bernsteins' pharmacy. Mr. Malkowski, who is usually just the weekend pharmacist and older than the state of Connecticut, is there. Even if he is impossibly old and still thinks my name is Lorelei after all these years, being helped by him is much more pleasant than having to deal with either of the Bernsteins. Mr. Bernstein's a nag and Mrs. Bernstein's a bitch. Emily will probably grow up to be just like her mother. It's unfortunate.

It takes Mr. Malkowski almost fifteen minutes to fill my mother's prescription. The Bernsteins are much faster. I'll give them credit there. Of course, you have to stand around and talk to them, which really cancels out any benefit of their efficiency.

When Mr. Malkowski is finally through with moving at the pace of a dying turtle, I leave the pharmacy with my mother's pills. My mother has epilepsy. Hardly anyone knows. We never talk about it. It embarrasses her. I think it must make her feel flawed and defective, an imperfection she cannot fix. There are many things we don't talk about at our house. My mother's epilepsy is just one on a long list.

Julie lives only a few blocks from downtown Stoneybrook on Rosedale Road. I drive past Emily's house and count three of her five cats skulking around the front yard. Why anyone needs five cats is lost on me. Emily used to have seven and that was just ridiculous.

Paul Stern, Julie's idiot brother, is mowing the lawn when I pull into the Sterns' driveway. Paul is almost sixteen and will be a junior at Stoneybrook High in the fall. Julie and I will be seniors. Despite his lower social status and general uselessness, Paul harbors many delusions about me. Mainly about me and him and our supposed future life together. His life plan is to marry Emily Bernstein because she's smart and will someday make a lot of money. He will then divorce her and take all her money and marry me. I'll be his trophy wife and we'll move to Oahu. He intends to call himself Paul Bernstein-Blume. I, honestly, suspect Paul Stern may be mentally impaired in some way.

"Hello, darling!" Paul calls to me over the noise of the lawn mower.

I slam the car door and completely ignore him. Julie's sitting on the front steps, drinking a glass of lemonade. Julie looks exactly as she always looks. That is, like she doesn't care much about how she looks. Today she's dressed in jean shorts and a dark brown tank top. Her blonde hair's pulled back in its usual ponytail and she isn't wearing any make-up. It's not that Julie's hideous or anything, but she'd be so much more attractive if she took care of herself.

"What are you doing?" I ask her.

Julie looks up at me and shields her eyes. She squints. "Watching Paul do something I don't have to do," she answers, simply.

"Thrilling."

Julie smiles and stands. "Come inside. It's too hot out here anyway. Paul's probably going to keel over from heatstroke. Oh, well. I'll finally get my own room."

Julie's house is a mess. As we pass through by the living room, I see unfolded laundry piled on the couch and in the kitchen, dirty dishes are stacked in the sink. I glance around and wrinkle my nose.

"Yeah, I know," Julie says, opening the fridge door. She takes out the lemonade jug. "I was supposed to clean the kitchen yesterday, but I got busy. Well, I wasn't really busy. I was watching t.v." Julie pours herself another glass of lemonade and then a glass for me. "It's been so boring around here with you and Emily gone. Stacey and Mary Anne are always busy. They're working at that Kid Center every afternoon, punishing themselves or something. And then, all morning, Stacey's at her summer school classes at Stoneybrook University and Mary Anne joined some kind of quilting bee. Fun stuff." Julie sets the glass in front of me and sips from her own. "Oh, Mary Anne's living with the McGill's now. She's in a tizzy because her stepsister's home for the summer. They're fighting or something."

"Already? What a lovely summer this will be," I comment, dryly. Mary Anne's nice and all - I mean, she _is_ one of my closest friends, but she can be such a drama queen.

"Yeah, really," Julie agrees.

Paul comes into the kitchen, his face and shirt soaked with sweat.

I wave my hand in front of my face. "You smell like manual labor, Paul."

"You know you like it, darling," he replies and opens the fridge. He takes out a carton of fat-free milk and drinks straight from it.

"Oh, don't get grossed out," Julie tells me, seeing my disgusted face. "He's the only one who drinks the fat-free milk." She kicks Paul in the butt. "Embarrassing me in front of my guest! And did you mow the Bernsteins' lawn yet? I think not!"

"The Bernsteins aren't even home!" Paul cries.

"Mom said you had to do it anyway! Just like any other week! If the Bernsteins come home early and their lawn isn't cut, you know they'll freak the hell out. Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein will have simultaneous coronaries or something."

"Are you vacuuming their house every day like you're supposed to?"

"No," Julie scoffs. "No one can see inside their house and the cats don't care if there's cat hair all over the furniture."

I roll my eyes. If the Bernsteins are so concerned about excessive cat hair, then they shouldn't let Emily keep every stray cat she drags home.

"Oh, hey, I got you something in Fiji," I tell Julie, thankful to bring the stimulating conversation about Emily, her cats, and her parents' OCD to an close.

"You did? Fabulous!" Julie holds out her hands, expectantly.

I open the shopping bag I brought with me. I hand Julie the obligatory tourist t-shirt and several bars of coconut soap. I also give her a beaded bracelet that coils five times around the wrist. All the beads are in pinks, reds, and silver.

"Cool," Julie says and pulls the t-shirt over her head. Then she coils the bracelet around her right wrist. She extends her arm outward to admire it.

"I know you like pink," I say and that detail never fails to shock me. "I got one for Emily, Stacey, and Mary Anne, too. And for myself, of course. Mine's in purples and silver. Emily's is yellow and blue, Stacey's blue and white, and Mary Anne's green, silver, and black. Neat, aren't they?"

"Yep," Julie with a nod and shakes her wrist.

"Where's mine?" Paul asks. "I like purple, too."

I roll my eyes and reach into the shopping bag. I throw a Fiji t-shirt at him. "Here. I got you that," I say, testily. Then I go back to ignoring him.

"Thank you, darling. I'll sleep in it every night and think of you."

Julie laughs. Julie would.

The front door bangs open and a few seconds later, Mrs. Stern appears in the doorway to the kitchen. She's dressed in her usual work clothes - a floral-print silk skirt and a blazer. Today she's in navy blue. Mrs. Stern is the manager at the Strathmoore Inn in downtown Stoneybrook. I like Mrs. Stern. Everybody does, even if she is a bit strange. But then, she's a Stern and can't really help it.

"Well, if it isn't the Fiji Mermaid!" Mrs. Stern exclaims when she sees me. She smiles. Mrs. Stern is always smiling. "Swam back ashore, did you?"

I have yet to figure out why the Sterns have insisted on calling me the Fiji Mermaid for the past month.

"We got home last night," I reply.

"And how was Fiji?" Mrs. Stern asks. Mrs. Stern has a very odd voice. It's loud and clear and projects from her abdomen. It's rather snobbish, too, like Connecticut high society, like debutantes are taught to speak at their boarding schools. It doesn't fit Mrs. Stern.

"Fiji was great. I went snorkeling and learned how to scuba dive. I got certified and everything. It was a lot of fun," I answer. And those things _were_ fun. Mostly. Even though I had to do them alone. Although my father watched from the dock when he looked up from his laptop long enough. It didn't really matter. I was underwater anyway.

"My parents took me to Fiji when I was in high school," Mrs. Stern tells me. "We went to the Mamanucas. Our first night there, I got drunk and threw up on some guy's surfboard."

All of Mrs. Stern's stories typically end with her getting drunk and throwing up or having a bad trip on LSD. I don't think most of the stories are even true.

"Why are you home?" Julie asks her mother.

Mrs. Stern raises a blonde eyebrow. "Well, gee, are you not happy to see me? Don't hide your true feelings, Juliebean. Is it, perhaps, that you've not yet done the dishes or weeded the flower beds or folded any of the laundry like you were supposed to?"

Julie waves her hand. "Those are all Paul and Rachel's clothes anyway. Who cares if they're wrinkled?"

"I don't," Paul pipes up.

"You'll care tomorrow," Mrs. Stern says. "And you can't run across the street and get Marian to iron your clothes for you. You know I don't like you doing that. You're old enough to iron your own clothes." Mrs. Stern puts her hands on her hips and glances around. "Now...why did I come home?"

"That's what we'd all like to know," Julie replies.

Mrs. Stern rolls her eyes. "Oh, right! I forgot to take my estrogen!" she cries and crosses to the cabinet above the sink. She takes out a white bottle and pops two pills in her mouth. "In another hour or so, I think people were going to start to complain."

"I'm already complaining," Julie says, leaning her elbows back against the counter.

"Well, you need to shut up then."

"Come over here and make me, old lady."

I stand up. "Well, I think I better go now," I announce. Really, there's only so much a person can take of the Sterns.

When I leave, Mrs. Stern's strangling Julie and Julie's pretending to die slowly.

I drive across town to the Bainbridge Estates, where Gran lives. She's lived there for fifty-one years, ever since she married my grandfather. He's dead now. He died before I was born. He and Mom hated each other, too. My aunt Corinne - that's Mom's younger sister - told me. Mom and Aunt Corinne also hate each other.

I turn onto Bertrand Drive and park in Gran's driveway. Gran comes out the front door just as I'm getting out of the car. She never fails to appear delighted to see me. Gran isn't like most grandmothers, all shriveled and gray. She's tall and willowy and isn't so old for a grandmother. She's only seventy-two, but looks younger. Probably because she doesn't have any wrinkles. She's had a face lift, even though she refuses to admit it. Gran is a redhead like my mother and I. Of course, Gran colors her hair now. She won't admit that either.

"Hello, dear!" Gran greets me, walking briskly down the front steps. She's dressed in a white pantsuit. She smiles, broadly, as she crosses the yard toward me and waves. Her cheeks have their usual rosy flush. "I thought you'd be tan!" she exclaims and hugs me.

"I am a slightly darker shade of pale," I reply.

Gran laughs. "Did that wicked daughter of mine even let you out in the sun?" Gran asks.

"Of course," I answer.

"And did she ever once step foot in the sun herself?"

"Of course," I say and it's technically not a lie. Mom did leave the resort for most meals, although she left under a ridiculous wide-brimmed hat. Sunlight causes wrinkles and - after no longer being a perfect size four - Mom's greatest fear is wrinkles.

"I'm uncertain if I believe you," Gran says and puts an arm around my shoulders as we walk into the house. "Vain, vain, vain," Gran whispers in my ear. "I should have named her that instead of Fay."

"She isn't that vain," I remark with a hint of irritation.

"Of course she is," Gran says and shuts the front door behind us. She strides ahead of me through the foyer and the living room.

I follow behind, dropping my purse and shopping bag on the couch. Gran's house has a mostly stiff, unlived in feel. It's strange considering that she's lived her almost her entire life. None of the furniture looks used. Every room on the ground floor reminds me of a display from a furniture store. Gran spends all her time outside in her garden or in her library. Every other room seems distant and cold. Even the living room, which should be the most welcoming room in the house. Instead, it holds the same sense of cold falseness as the rest of the house, even with all the pictures set out on the coffee table and mantle. Mostly photos of myself and my little cousins, who actually aren't so little anymore. They're eleven, eight, and seven. There are quite a few photos of Aunt Corinne. She and Gran get along just fine. There are photos of my mother as well, of her and her other sister. Old photos from when my mother was my age and younger. She never looks happy. She's always staring straight into the camera, hand on one hip, and a contemptuous scowl on her face, as if daring the person behind the camera to request that she smile.

"You look so much like your mother," Gran comments when she notices me gazing at one of the photos. "Lucky you aren't anything like her. Fay is impossible. Come along now, Grace." Gran leads me out onto the back porch. Gran's backyard is large and lush green. There's a swimming pool and spa and behind those a tennis court. Gran and I play tennis a lot. She's pretty good. But I'm better.

"Why are there four places set?" I ask, glancing down at the patio table.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Gran says with a chuckle. "I invited a friend to join us for lunch and she's bringing her granddaughter."

I narrow my eyes suspiciously. Gran didn't forget. Gran never forgets anything.

"Why?" I ask.

"Well, last summer all you did was complain about being bored. Your friends were always baby-sitting and going off to summer camp. So, I thought, you can make a new friend!" My cheeks grow warm. I do _not_ need my grandmother setting up play dates for me like I'm a maladjusted five year old. I have _plenty_ of friends. I'm very popular. Last summer was boring a lot of the time, that is true. But it wasn't because I don't have enough friends. They were just busy. I wasn't busy because I don't have to work and summer camp seems dirty and buggy.

A door slams inside the house.

Gran glances at her silver and diamond wristwatch. "Right on time!" she announces and beams at me.

The sliding glass door opens and a woman with short white hair appears in the doorway. She smiles, pleasantly. "Hello, Allison. Hello, Grace," she greets us and steps through onto the back porch.

"Hello, Mrs. McCracken. Hello, Grace," a second voice calls from inside the house. The girl steps out after her grandmother. Her long blonde hair hangs straight down her back. She wears faded jean shorts and a baggy pink and white-striped t-shirt.

I raise my chin and cast my eyes down at her.

"Hello, Dawn."


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn and I eye each other. 

This must be a joke. Gran wants me to befriend _Dawn Schafer_? Please. In my short absence, Gran has completely lost her mind. 

Dawn looks almost as thrilled as I feel. She regards me without expression, blue eyes sweeping over me, She looks as I remember her - same tan, same face, same lack of fashion sense. Her hair is different, not as long as it used to be and a darker shade of golden blonde. I'm uncertain when I saw her last. Maybe last Christmas or Thanksgiving. Or maybe it's been an entire year and not since last summer. I know she was in town over spring break. I don't recall ever seeing her. Mary Anne complained about her a lot though. 

Mary Anne would not approve of Gran's intentions. 

"Ready for lunch?" Gran asks, brightly, still smiling. She knows I am not enthused. She's ignoring it. "Rita, I thought we'd eat outside," she says to Dawn's grandmother. 

Mrs. Porter nods. "Yes. It's a beautiful day out. There won't be many more like this," she agrees. 

"I'll tell Brigitta that we're ready for lunch then," Gran says and goes back into the house. Brigitta is her cook and maid. 

Dawn and I still watch each other. I place my hands on my hips and straighten to my full height. I look down on Dawn. 

"Back inside, Penelope!" Gran shouts, pushing her Pomeranian back inside the house with her foot. Good. I hate that dog. I've never told Gran. "Brigitta is on her way out with lunch," Gran informs us, sliding the glass door closed and coming back out onto the porch. She stands beside me and places an arm around my shoulders. "Stop staring at each other," she scolds. "Sit down." 

Dawn obeys without hesitation, turning quickly and joining her grandmother at the patio table. I move much more reluctantly. I won't even fake pleasantries. Gran doesn't need encouraging and neither does Mrs. Porter. I take my seat at the patio table across from Mrs. Porter with Dawn on my right and Gran on my left. I shoot Gran a withering look, but she ignores me and smiles at Mrs. Porter instead, beginning a conversation that excludes Dawn and I. The Porters have lived on Bertrand Drive nearly as long as Gran. My mother and her sisters grew up with Dawn's mother. My mother is several years older than Mrs. Spier. They've never been friends. 

Dawn leans over to me while Gran and Mrs. Porter are busy laughing and not paying us any attention. "This was my grandmother's idea," she informs me. I simply raise an eyebrow and don't answer. Instead, I shake out my napkin and spread it onto my lap. Dawn raises her pale blonde eyebrows back at me. She sits back in her chair and says nothing else. Good. She knows I'm not interested in being her friend either. 

Brigitta brings out lunch, which is chicken salad laid out on crisp lettuce leaves. She also brings glasses of tropical iced tea. When Brigitta disappears back into the house, we pick up our forks to eat. I watch Dawn lift a small forkful to her mouth. 

"You know," I say, pointing to her plate with my fork, "there's chicken in there. _Meat._" 

Dawn pauses with her fork poised at her mouth. "I know," she replies and puts the fork in her mouth. 

"Since when do you eat meat?" I ask. 

"I don't eat red meat. I eat chicken." 

"Don't they shoot you for that sort of thing out in California?" I inquire. 

"Nope," Dawn answers and takes another bite. 

I watch her, my mouth turning down in a frown. This is who Mary Anne's spent the last year battling? She doesn't seem particularly fazed or bothered to rise to the occasion of an argument. Well, she's probably on drugs. She is from California after all. I return to my lunch and resume ignoring Dawn Schafer. 

"So," Mrs. Porter says, looking across the table at me. "How was Fiji?" 

"Excellent," I reply and take a sip of iced tea. "My parents and I had a _great_ time. Have you ever been to Fiji?" I ask and Mrs. Porter shakes her head. "You must go then. It's fantastic. We went snorkeling and scuba diving. I'm certified now. The beaches on the Coral Coast aren't the best. They're pretty rocky, but there were some fabulous areas. And the entire island was gorgeous. It was certainly better than California." 

"Have you even been to California?" Dawn wants to know. 

"Of course. I've been to Los Angeles once and twice to San Francisco. I went on business trips with my parents." 

Gran chuckles. "My daughter certainly knows how to take a family vacation." 

"I don't think you know what you're talking about," Dawn tells me without looking up from her lunch. 

"Of course I do," I protest. 

"So, Grace," Mrs. Porter says and changes the subject. "Where do you want to go to college next year?" 

I shrug. "Oh. I don't know. I haven't really thought about it," I answer and take a small bite of chicken salad. School is boring. 

"What are you going to study?" Mrs. Porter asks, trying again. 

"I don't know," I say with another shrug. 

"I'm going to Chico State to study social work," Dawn pipes up. "That's where all my friends want to go, too." 

"Oh..." says Gran with a small smile. "That's a noble profession." 

"If you want to work with prostitutes and crack addicts," I add. 

Mrs. Porter gives me a tight smile and pats Dawn's hand. Gran doesn't react at all. She continues eating her lunch. She agrees with me. 

After lunch, Gran and Mrs. Porter send Dawn and I away. I'm supposed to show her around the garden. Gran's very passionate about gardening. She spends all morning and all evening pulling weeds and moving plants and pruning shrubs. Sometimes when I visit, I sit in the garden and watch her and when I talk to her, it's like she doesn't even hear me. She goes somewhere else, somewhere I can't reach her. 

As Dawn and I leave the patio, I hear Mrs. Porter remark to Gran, "Grace looks just like I remember Fay at that age," and Gran replies, "Yes, except Grace is delightful." 

The first thing Dawn says to me when we enter the garden is, "Does your grandmother ever have anything nice to say about your mother?" 

"Of course," I reply, even though I can't recall anything that was not laced in venom. It is the same with Mom. It is the same with Aunt Corinne. It's just the way things are. 

"You know, Granny was telling me earlier that my mom and your aunt were best friends growing up." 

"Aunt Corinne?" I ask, puzzled. Aunt Corinne is much younger than Mrs. Spier. 

"Oh...no..." Dawn says, hesitantly. "The other one. The dead one." 

"Oh. Aunt Margolo. Really? I didn't know that." No one ever talks about Aunt Margolo. She only exists in photographs on the mantle. 

"Yeah...that's what Granny said," Dawn says. "I guess they weren't friends anymore though when your aunt died. Do you know why she killed herself?" 

"I don't think that's any of your business," I snap. And it's not. I don't know the answer though. I asked Gran once. She said Aunt Margolo killed herself because she was weak. 

If Dawn's embarrassed, she doesn't let on. "I'll ask Mom when I go back home. Back to Mom's house, that is. I'm staying with Granny and Pop-Pop for awhile." 

I raise an eyebrow. "Didn't you just get here? You've already moved out?" 

"Temporarily," Dawn says. "Mary Anne's mad at me. It's stupid. She's being really dumb." 

"Mary Anne isn't dumb," I reply, testily. "Certainly she has a good reason to be mad at you." 

"She doesn't." 

Well, I don't believe that. 

"Let's play tennis," I suggest and turn back out of the garden and stride briskly across the yard. "You know how to play, right?" 

"Yes. I've played in phys ed. I don't like tennis though." 

I smile to myself. Excellent. I'll win then. 

I lead Dawn into the pool house, where Gran stores the tennis equipment. I remove my new sandals and tug on a pair of tennis shoes I keep here. Dawn watches me and bounces a tennis ball up and down on the floor. 

"So, why is your grandmother trying to find you new friends?" she asks me. 

I glance up from tying my shoelace. I narrow my eyes at her. "She's not. She just pities you." 

"Is that right?" 

"Yep," I reply and bend my head down again. "I pity you, too. That's why I'm playing tennis with you." 

"Gee, thanks." 

"You're welcome." 

When my tennis shoes are on, I lead Dawn back across the yard. We pass Gran and Mrs. Porter, still seated at the patio table, drinking iced tea and laughing. Gran pushes her carrot red hair from her face and laughs again as she sees me crossing the yard, racket in hand. 

"Go easy on her," Mrs. Porter calls out to me. "She isn't a tennis star like you." 

Gran laughs. "If she goes easy on her, how will Dawn get any better?" 

I look over at Dawn and grin. "I _am_ a tennis star," I assure her. I am the best on the varsity team at SHS. Mari Drabek, my doubles partner, is a distant second. But I am the best. Everyone knows it. 

"Your self-confidence is amazing," Dawn replies. 

Her sarcasm is not lost on me. 

"Thank you." 

Dawn Schafer is a terrible tennis player. I trounce her in about ten seconds flat. There is so little challenge to her defeat that it's not even that pleasing. I knew I would win. It isn't a surprise. And there's a hollowness to it. A disappointment that comes with a victory that was not hard won. 

"You could have tried harder," I inform her. 

"You could have gone easier on me," Dawn replies, peevishly. She's out of breath and her face bright red. Her blonde hair is sticky with sweat, soaked strands plastered across her forehead. 

"You heard Gran. Want another game?" 

"No." 

Dawn drops her racket on the court and jogs away, leaving me standing alone. She jogs across the lawn to where our grandmothers sit. I have to gather her racket and mine and the can of tennis balls. I stride as quick as possible after her. Whatever she says to them, she's done by the time I reach them. 

Mrs. Porter rises from her chair. "Thank you for lunch, Allison," she says to Gran, pleasantly. She turns to me. "It was nice seeing you, Grace." Gran stands, too. "You're welcome, Rita. We'll do it again soon. Come, I'll walk you out." 

Dawn Schafer doesn't even give me a backwards glance as she follows her grandmother back inside the house. She disappears through the sliding glass doors, her straight blonde hair and striped t-shirt moving away from me. 

I wrinkle my nose in irritation. Who does Dawn Schafer think she is? 

I wait until I hear the front door close before going into the living room. Gran frowns at me. She's disappointed. She's disappointed in me. 

I frown back at her. "Dawn Schafer?" I say to Gran. "Was that serious?" 

"What was wrong with her?" 

I raise an eyebrow. Were we eating at the same table? 

"I already have friends. I have lots of friends. I really don't need you going out and finding me new ones." 

Gran's frown deepens. "I was only trying to help," she says. "Rita and I thought...well, Rita says Dawn is lonely and unhappy. And then you're always cooped up in your house all alone." 

"Not always," I protest. Does Gran seriously think I don't have friends? I have Stacey and Mary Anne and Julie and Emily. They're my closest friends. Sure, Stacey and Mary Anne are wrapped up in each other, and Julie and Emily reside in their own strange world. And maybe sometimes I feel like the fifth wheel and I don't precisely fit together with the other girls...but that's not important. That's just the way it is. 

Gran watches me a moment and then brushes back her hair. "All right..." she says, lightly. "I can't force you to do anything. You're stubborn like your mother." 

"I'm not stubborn. I'm right." 

Gran chuckles. 

I relax. 

"Gran..." I say when a thought unrelated to Dawn Schafer occurs to me. "Have you ever heard of someone called a Fiji Mermaid?" 

Gran chuckles again. "Of course. I think I have a book..." she says and takes off toward the library. 

I sigh and follow. She's already pulling books off the shelves when I enter the room. When Gran isn't lost in her garden, she's lost in her library. My mother says Gran likes books more than she likes people. I don't understand that. I think books are boring, just like school. When I was younger, I used to read the Nancy Drew series. I lost interest in those years ago. Now I have better things to do than sit with my nose in a book. I'm supposed to read four books this summer, required reading for Senior British Literature. I tried starting each of the books while in Fiji. I couldn't understand them. 

"Can you just tell me?" I ask, exasperated. 

Gran closes the book she's currently flipping through. She replaces it on its shelf. "Of course. The Fiji Mermaid was a sideshow exhibit. It was supposedly a mummified mermaid-like creature, but in reality, was the tail of a fish sewn onto the body of a monkey." 

Great. The Sterns have been calling me a circus freak for the past month. 

"I know I have a book on it somewhere," Gran informs me, returning to one of the bookshelves. "It's very interesting and..." 

I stop listening. 

A few hours later, I'm at home again, lying on the couch in the living room, drinking a pineapple soda and listening to _General Hospital_ while flipping through the book Gran forced me to take home. It smells musty and old. And it's not nearly as interesting as Gran promised. In the kitchen, I hear the door from the garage bang open and the sound of my parents' voices ring through the house. My mother has a very loud voice. She likes to be heard. 

I sit up and switch off the television when my parents come into the living room. They're chuckling over something and sigh in unison when they see me. 

"Hello, Grace," Mom greets me. My mother looks exactly how I expect to look when I am her age. She is fifty-one, but looks much younger. And it isn't because she's had cosmetic surgery like Julie claims. My mother takes care of herself. Appearances are very important. Mom and I are the same height - five foot eleven and a quarter inches. We have the same porcelain skin and the same dark red hair, except Mom wears hers bobbed at her chin. She's worn it like that for as long as I remember. She doesn't dress like other mothers. Certainly not like ones who have entered their fifties. She dresses in short skirts and stiletto heels and tailored suit jackets with massive shoulder pads. She always looks like a page in a magazine. 

"Hello," I reply. "How was work?" 

"Don't even ask!" Mom exclaims. She's still holding her briefcase. Her laptop case is still slung over her shoulder. "My new assistant is worthless. She can't even make coffee. She can't even turn on her computer. She can't possibly have graduated high school. And I don't mean because she's an imbecile, which she is. I mean, because she can't possibly be old enough to have graduated yet. She may be fourteen years old. I'm having it checked out. God, I need a drink!" Mom cries and marches toward the office, still holding her briefcase, still carrying her laptop case. 

Dad's already hit the office door. He's already pouring a drink. Gin and tonic. His drink of choice. My mother prefers rum. She's already unscrewing the cap on the bottle. The dark liquid tumbles into the glass Dad holds out for her. She fills it to the brim. 

My parents are _not_ alcoholics. 

"What are you reading?" Mom inquiries, coming back into the living room. She downed half her drink in the office. The glass is full again. 

"A book Gran gave me." 

"Oh! That woman and her damn books!" Mom yells. "A meteor could be hurtling toward the earth and she wouldn't leave that damned library!" 

Dad returns to the living room. He sips his gin and tonic. "Have you eaten dinner?" he asks me. Dad is older than Mom. He's fifty-six and he looks fifty-six. He's lost most of his hair and what's still around the back of his head is a light blonde-brown. Dad's tall, almost six foot six. He doesn't go with Mom. They don't match up in the slightest. 

"Yes. I already ate," I answer. I ate the rest of the chicken salad that Gran sent home with me. I ate it two hours ago when it was actually dinnertime. Now it's nearly nine o' clock. 

"We haven't eaten," Dad says. "Come into the kitchen with us." 

I close my book and follow them into the kitchen, carrying my pineapple soda. I take a seat at the table while my parents dig through the freezer, pawing through all the frozen dinners. The freezer is crammed full with them. 

"I'm having the chicken enchiladas, Hal," Mom says, testily, head buried in the freezer. "I told you that on the train. Give it to me." 

Dad hands over the box. "Here you go, my dear. I'll have this delicious-looking meatloaf." 

"It looks very appetizing," Mom agrees and shuts the freezer door. She opens her box and tosses the frozen tray onto the counter. Then she grabs a knife and stabs the plastic with three fast jabs. "Here, let me do yours, Hal," she offers and stabs Dad's dinner, too. They laugh. 

We don't actually cook in our family. Dad claims he knows how to cook, but I've never seen this skill demonstrated. Mom can't boil water. Honestly. She's too impatient and gives up. She tried to make soup once. She couldn't figure out the electric can opener and threw it against the wall. We've still not replaced it. 

"Did you get my note?" Mom asks, as her dinner turns in the microwave. 

"Yes." 

"Did you figure out the dry cleaning?" 

"Why, yes, I did. Your tips were so helpful, too." 

"Oh, really? I'm so glad." 

"It was very difficult to look at the tags," I tell her. 

"I thought as much." Mom turns her head and smiles, wryly. 

I match her smile. 

"And my pills? Did you get those?" 

"Yes," I answer and rise from the chair. I cross to the counter, where I left the bag from the pharmacy. I toss the bag to Mom. 

She catches it and unfolds the top, pulling out the staples. She takes out her prescription bottle and turns it around, studying it. She laughs. "Are the Bernsteins on vacation?" she asks. 

"Yes. Why?" 

"Because Marian Bernstein always puts about twenty 'do not consume with alcohol' stickers on the bottle. The view must be breathtaking from where she sits in that glass house of hers, looking down upon us all. The judgmental bitch." Mom tosses the prescription bottle onto the counter. 

"You should probably take your pill now, my dear," Dad points out. 

There's no expression on Mom's face for a moment. Then she picks up the bottle and unscrews the cap. "Yes, you're right," she says and pops a pill into her mouth. She washes it down with rum. 

Mom used to be very bad about taking her pills. I remember quite a few seizures when I was younger. Once, she had one while driving. We were on our way to the bank and she drove the car into a telephone pole. She lost her license for a year. A few years before that we were shopping at Bellair's and I wandered away from her. Mom panicked and began hyperventilating. It triggered a seizure right in the middle of the cosmetics department. That one was the worst because everybody saw. 

"So, what book were you reading?" Dad asks when he sits down across from me at the table. 

"Some book about great hoaxes." 

Mom snorts as she takes the chair beside Dad. "Did you get to the chapter yet about Allison Macintosh McCracken allegedly having a soul?" she asks me. 

"Not yet." 

"And how is Allison?" Dad asks, politely. 

"She's fine." 

"A house hasn't fallen on her yet?" Mom inquires. "Satan hasn't risen from the bowels of Hell to snatch her back to his lair?" 

"No. Nothing like that," I reply. 

"Pity." 

"So, what did you do today, Grace?" Dad asks me, ignoring Mom. 

I shrug. "Saw Julie. Saw Gran. Played tennis." I shrug again. 

"That's nice," Dad says with a faint smile. 

"I hope you're not listening to anything she tells you," Mom says out of the clear blue. "She'll warp your mind. She's the most manipulative, mean-spirited woman to ever walk the earth. Whatever she tells you, don't listen to her. Especially if it's about me. You know, the only reason she's even interested in you is to spite me. Because she's mean-spirited and manipulative and _spiteful_. And she - " 

"Fay," Dad cuts in. 

"What?" 

"Stop." 

And she does. 

I don't remain in the kitchen much longer. 

I go upstairs to my bedroom and turn on the television. I flip through the channels. There's nothing on. I hear my parents downstairs in their office, faintly, far away. I know what they're doing. They're sitting at their laptops. Dad's smoking a cigar. Mom's pouring her fourth or fifth drink. They're probably talking and laughing. They enjoy being together. 

I'm watching an entertainment news show when I hear Mom's footfalls on the stairs. They stop outside my bedroom door. There's a pause, a stretch of silence beneath the hum of the television. Mom knocks and comes in without waiting for an answer. She's carrying her glass in one hand and a Saks Fifth Avenue bag in the other. I sit up and turn off the television as Mom comes around the side of my bed. She sets her glass on the night table, then sits beside me and crosses her legs. They're long and ceaseless like mine. Today Mom's wearing a chocolate brown plaid suit. She smells like perfume and rum. 

"I have something for you," she tells me and looks inside the Saks bag. 

"What is it?" I ask. My parents are always bringing me gifts from New York. I guess it makes them feel better that I have something to see and touch and remember since they are never here. 

Mom hands me a coral-colored bottle. "It's a new face moisturizer," she says and taps the name on the bottle. "It's only available at Saks. Bev Spencer told me about it this morning when I went down to Human Resources to lodge an in-person complaint about the ineptness of their hiring practices. Of course, no one ever listens. But Bev did recommend this new moisturizer, so perhaps the morning wasn't a complete waste. I sent Shelley...or Camille...or whatever her name is to Saks to buy one for you and one for me. I'll give credit where it's due. She was at least capable of making it to Fifth Avenue and purchasing the correct items." 

"Thanks, Mom," I say and pop off the cap. I pump some of the cream onto my index finger. The cream is a pale coral color, nearly matching its bottle. I rub it onto the back of my hand. "It's silky. I hate when its a thick cream. It takes forever to absorb into your skin." 

"I know. Or when it's so thin and oily that it leaves your skin slick and all your make-up slides off." 

"Yeah, I hate that, too." 

And a silence settles between us. 

"I wanted to come in and say, Grace," Mom finally speaks. She uncrosses her legs and then crosses them again. This time the left over the right. "That if my mother likes you more than she ever liked me, then I'm very happy for you." Mom stands and picks up her glass from the night table. 

I don't say anything. I only stare up at her. 

And maybe Mom doesn't know what else to say either. Or maybe whatever she has to say she simply can't. She drains her glass and leaves my room. 


	3. Chapter 3

"Wait until you see this!" Stacey McGill announces, marching out of my house onto the patio. She's wrapped in a cerulean blue cover-up, her blonde hair clipped on top of her head. Julie and I are already in the swimming pool - Julie laying on an inflatable raft and me sitting on a swim out with my elbows propped back on the cement. Mary Anne's on a chaise lounge beside the pool, rubbing sunscreen on her arms. 

"It's ghastly. I'm warning you," Mary Anne tells us. 

Stacey tears off her cover-up and allows it to drop to the cement. Underneath, she's wearing a metallic silver string bikini. It looks as if she's wrapped herself in tin foil. 

"Ugh!" Julie cries, making a disgusted face. 

"Why would you waste money on such an atrocious swimsuit?" I demand. 

"I didn't," Stacey replies, coming nearer to the edge of the pool. "My stepmom sent it to me. I think she must have gotten it free at a photo shoot." 

"The light reflecting off it is blinding me," Julie complains. 

"Please never wear that suit again," I tell Stacey. "You look like Disco Whore Swimwear Barbie and the look is not very becoming. At all." 

Stacey giggles. "Don't worry. I never intend to wear it again." 

"No, you should definitely wear it again," Julie says, shielding her eyes to look at Stacey. "This fall when it's time to fire up the Bernsteins' hot tub. You know how they feel about bikinis in general. I think the indecency of that one might actually succeed in rendering them speechless. Or kill them." 

"You'd have to cut out Mrs. Bernstein's tongue to render her speechless," I sniff, pushing away from the swim out. "And even that likely wouldn't stop her." 

Julie laughs. 

Mary Anne moves off the chaise lounge onto the pool edge, dangling her legs in the water. "Maybe I can borrow that suit sometime, Stace," she suggests, seriously. "I could wear the top downtown and cause a sensation." 

"Good luck filling out that top, Mary Anne," I tell her. 

Mary Anne smiles across the pool at me. 

These have not always been my friends. 

Most of my life, Cokie Mason was my best friend, from pre-school through eighth grade. I never thought we wouldn't be best friends. And then, what my parents simply refer to as The Incident occurred during the August before freshman year. That ended my friendship with Cokie. It ended a lot of things. No more Cokie Mason, my parents said. A bad influence, a reckless spirit, they called her. It didn't matter that, at the time, the Masons were still their best friends. They aren't really best friends anymore. For a variety of reasons. 

And so, I began high school without Cokie as my best friend. I began high school without any friends at all. When I backed away from Cokie, all our friends backed away from me. All except Mari Drabek, the lone soul of our old group to choose me over Cokie. I rewarded her for her loyalty by agreeing to be her doubles partner in tennis, even though I originally intended to play singles. The tennis team is how I became friends with Stacey. She played only that first year and with good reason. She played pretty terribly. Stacey was suspicious of me at first. I realized that, even if she assumed I didn't. I'd never given her any reason to trust me, or to believe that my fallings out with Cokie would ever stick. But it stuck that time and wore on and with time, I suppose I wore Stacey down. And we became friends. 

I've known Mary Anne all my life. We were never friends. It seems that all through elementary and middle school, it was always me and Cokie against her and Kristy Thomas. When Cokie and Kristy and their petty arguments were removed from the equation, I guess it allowed Mary Anne and I to become friends. We aren't extremely close. Mary Anne is, above all, Stacey McGill's best friend. Sometimes it seems there's not much room for anyone else. It's the same with Emily and Julie. And then there is me. 

"You can have it, Mary Anne," Stacey says and hops feet first into the shallow end, sending a splash of water into Julie's face. Julie shakes the water off her face. "Speaking of downtown sensations," she begins with a grin. "Where is your mother this sunny Saturday afternoon?" 

"Oh, not this again!" Stacey groans. 

"What?" I ask. "What is it?" 

Stacey rolls her eyes and dunks underneath the water. When she pops back up, her hair is falling out of it's clip. She begins fussing with it and rolls her eyes again. "While you were in Fiji, Julie began having hallucinations," she informs me. 

"I know what I saw," Julie protests with irritation. "And last Sunday, I saw your mother on a street corner in Stamford making out with some guy!" 

"You did not!" Stacey cries. "My mother wasn't in Stamford on Sunday. She was at the store in Levittown. Who would she be making out with anyway? My mother doesn't date!" 

"She may not date, but she french kisses on street corners," Julie says. "Has your father been sending his alimony and child support checks regularly? Because your mom was working that street corner pretty hard." 

Stacey narrows her eyes and grabs the side of Julie's raft and in a single fluid motion, tips Julie into the water. 

"You really had no choice," Mary Anne tells Stacey, nodding. 

When Julie pops up again, she's laughing. "That was refreshing! Thanks, Stace!" she exclaims. 

"You're very welcome, Julie." 

"I guess I missed a lot while I was away," I comment, walking through the water toward them. 

Mary Anne's still seated on the pool edge, kicking her legs in the water. Julie hoists herself out of the water to sit beside Mary Anne on the blazing hot cement. Water drips off her ponytail and rolls down her skin and back into the pool. Julie's wearing her SHS swimsuit. It's navy blue with red stripes on the sides. Stacey, Julie, and I are on the school swim team. Julie and I swim varsity, Stacey swims junior varsity. Julie claims to be the best swimmer on the team, but I don't think that's necessarily true. We've tried to convince Mary Anne to join the team, but she refuses. She doesn't want people staring at her in her swimsuit. She seems to think that people would care. We've never even mentioned joining to Emily. Emily is allergic to physical fitness. 

"You didn't miss that much, actually," Mary Anne assures me. She pulls up the top on her pink and yellow polka dot bikini. "Aside from that one hallucination of Julie's." Julie elbows her in the stomach. 

"Well..." Stacey says, sitting down on the top step near Mary Anne. "You did miss Dawn's return." 

Mary Anne's expression quickly turns, melting from a smile to a straight, thin line. "_That_," she says, coldly, "is hardly worth noting." 

I raise an eyebrow. "Oh, really?" I say, casually. I've not mentioned yesterday's lunch to anyone. It's not worth needlessly upsetting Mary Anne. She's upset enough in general anyway. What with her recent break-up with Pete Black (why? Does she expect to get someone _better_ than Pete Black? I think not), her constant battles with Mrs. Spier (which Mary Anne thinks are a secret. They are not), and of course, her on-going feud with Dawn. I hope that if Mary Anne knew, she would appreciate the sacrifice I am making by biting my tongue and keeping my comments to myself. 

"Yeah, Dawn's back," Stacey tells me. "What day did you leave for Fiji? The third? Dawn got here on the fourth, Sunday - " 

"The day I saw your mom - " 

"Shut up, Julie," Stacey snaps. 

I just ignore Julie. Stacey should learn how to do that. "I knew Dawn was coming for the summer," I say, focusing on Stacey. "I didn't realize she was coming so soon." 

"Yeah, really," Mary Anne grumbles, her mood having totally shifted. "She's come for the _entire_ summer. Good thing Mrs. McGill is cool and doesn't mind me moving in. How long did Dawn and I last in the same house, Stace? Three days and two nights? I'm at Stacey's now, just so you know, Grace. You can reach me there." 

"Thanks for the FYI," I reply. Not that I telephone Mary Anne with great frequency, "But isn't Dawn living with her grandparents? My grandmother told me." 

Mary Anne looks uncomfortable. She shoots a look at Stacey, silently blaming Stacey with subtle accusation for starting this conversation in the first place. "Well...yes. But...it's Dad and Sharon she's avoiding, not me. I mean, she can't avoid me since I already left. Dawn is absolutely impossible. When she's not arguing with Sharon, she's arguing with my dad. It's like she can't get along with _anyone_." Mary Anne frowns and kicks her legs some more, sending little splashes of water toward me, but all fall short of reaching me. "I feel really sorry for my dad," she continues. "It's bad enough with Sharon and Dawn, but Jeff's been arguing a lot with him, too. Actually, I think Jeff may be living with the Pikes at the moment. Well, with Jordan. He's the only normal Pike triplet left." 

I seriously doubt there's such a thing as a "normal" Pike. 

"That's too bad, Mary Anne," I say, sympathetically. I'm uncertain if I should add anything else. My parents never fight. Sometimes, they raise their voices and my father will say, "_Fay_," in a tight voice and my mother will say, "_Harold_" in an even tighter voice, and then one of them relents and it's over. I really don't fight with them either. I know how to handle them. I know how to get exactly what I want. 

"Yeah, too bad," Julie echoes and jumps back into the water. Julie prefers to ignore problems. 

Mary Anne finally slides into the water, going under, and not coming back up for awhile. She signals the end of the conversation without a word, ducking under the water, burying herself, similar to how Julie buries her head in the sand. If you don't see it or acknowledge it, then it's not there. 

We're out of the pool an hour later after Mary Anne swears she feels a sunburn coming on. I don't see how that's at all possible considering I watched her slather half a bottle of SPF 45 sunblock over her entire body, including the areas covered by her swimsuit. It's only the end of the first full week of June and already Stacey and Julie are tan. It's an especially good thing for Julie since normally she has such skinny, stark white legs. The tan is a marked improvement. 

We towel off and slip back inside the house, into the kitchen, still dripping somewhat on the tile, mostly from our hair. I take out sodas from the fridge for myself, Mary Anne, and Julie, and then pour a glass of orange juice for Stacey. I get a bag of tortilla chips from the pantry and pour them in a bowl, which I set in the middle of the table. The four of us take the chairs around the table and sip our sodas while munching on the chips. 

"I don't know how you can drink that pineapple stuff," Julie remarks. She and Mary Anne are drinking cherry cola. "It's too sugary sweet tasting and it's _pineapple_. Pineapple was never meant to be a soda." 

"It's an acquired taste," I inform her. "And it's a good one. Marta has to go to the supermarket in Mercer to buy it. The A&P doesn't sell it." 

"Because they _can't_. No one wants to buy it." 

I throw a chip at her. 

"When is Emily coming home?" Mary Anne asks Julie. 

Julie picks out the chip from where it's fallen down the front of her swimsuit. She eats it. "I don't know. Wednesday or Thursday. They weren't sure. Emily called me last night to check on her cats. They were somewhere in Maryland." 

I take a long sip of my soda, then set down the can. "I hope you realize," I say to Julie, "that all three of them will not be returning to Stoneybrook. Someone _will_ die on this trip. I fear we've all seen the last of Mr. Bernstein." 

"I hope not," Julie replies, "because he has one of my library books with him and I'm not paying to have it replaced." 

Stacey looks at me with this sort of confused expression on her face. Then she says, "Mary Anne and I have pretty much settled on where we're applying this fall. I've called in some requests for applications and more information packets. I wish _my_ mom would take me on a college tour this summer. She says we'll go in the spring when I receive my acceptance letters and narrow down my choices." 

"Yeah, that's what Dad says, too," Mary Anne tells us. 

"Well, we'll probably just together anyway," Stacey adds. 

I yawn. No one notices. 

"Emily's picking up all my applications for me," Julie says and pops another chip in her mouth. "I don't need to see any of the schools. I trust Emily and her parents' judgment." 

I yawn again. 

"Are we boring you, Grace?" Stacey asks. 

"Yes." 

"Well, where are you applying in the fall?" 

"I don't know. I'll decide in the fall," I answer. Why is everyone so interested in such a dull topic? There's an entire summer stretched before us and they want to worry about more school. How boring. "I'll tell you where I'm _not_ applying," I tell them. "I'm not applying to Smith." Smith College is where Gran wants me to go. She went to Smith, for three years at least until she married my grandfather. Her mother went to Smith, too, and so did my mother and both her sisters. Of course, Aunt Margolo didn't finish since she killed herself. Gran keeps pushing. My mother says I wouldn't like Smith and that I wouldn't fit in. But Gran pushes anyway. 

"Smith wasn't very appealing to us either," Stacey says. She glances up at the wall clock and her eyes widen in alarm. "Is that really the time?" she exclaims. "We've got to go, Mary Anne! We still have to shower before our evening shift at the Kid Center!" 

Stacey and Mary Anne hurry to gather their belongings, then Julie and I walk them to the front door. Stacey hops out the front door, struggling to put on her sandal. I don't think Stacey realizes she's not put her cover-up back on and is, instead, hopping around my front porch in her metallic silver bikini and a pair of neon green wedge sandals. 

"Need a ride, Julie?" Mary Anne asks, following after Stacey. 

"No, my mom will be here soon. She's picking me up after she gets off work." 

Julie and I watch Stacey and Mary Anne climb into Stacey's turquoise Impala. We wave as they drive away. 

"Stacey looked like she should be working that street corner with her mom," Julie comments. 

I roll my eyes and go back inside the house. Julie comes with me, of course, trailing after me back into the kitchen. She opens the fridge when she gets there. 

"Do you have any cookies or brownies?" she wants to know. 

"I don't know. Maybe. Check the pantry," I reply and sit back down in my chair at the table. My parents don't care if my friends come over and eat all our food. That's the sort of thing Mrs. McGill and Mrs. Spier get a bit testy about sometimes. I'm not sure what Mrs. Spier's deal is. No one actually wants to eat the food at her house anyway. It all tastes like gooey cardboard. And at Julie's house, there's never any food. Paul and Julie eat it all. Then they move onto everyone else's house and eat their food. 

"Have you started your reading for British Literature?" I ask Julie. 

She turns in the doorway of the pantry with a bag of iced lemon cookies in her hand. "Sure. I already finished." 

"You finished!" I practically screech. How could she have finished? I barely got past chapter one in any of the books! "But you're in the advanced class! Don't you have five books to read instead of four?" 

"Six," Julie corrects me and slides back into her chair. She tears open the bag. "Actually, I'd read two of the books already and didn't bother to reread them So, really, I only read four of the books this week. I'll reread them all at the end of the summer before I write my analysis papers. I still have to read the books for Critical Analysis though." 

Critical Analysis is some dull elective Emily and Julie signed up for. An entire class devoted to reading and dissecting books. Regular English classes are bad enough. At least in those we're not _always_ reading a book. Emily and Julie are crazy. 

"Which Shakespeare play did you read?" I ask. Mr. Granier, the British Literature teacher, originally assigned _Merchant of Venice_ at the end of the school year. But then Emily's parents pitched a fit about it being anti-Semitic, so Mr. Granier changed the play to _Taming of the Shrew_. But that didn't appease the Bernsteins. They objected to that play, too, on the grounds that it's sexist and requested it be re-categorized and taught as a tragedy instead of a comedy. The Bernsteins have way too much free time on their hands. And now no one knows which play we're supposed to read. 

"Neither," Julie answers. "I read _Titus Andronicus_. I heard that's what Mr. Granier changed it to this time." Julie screws up her face. "Lauren Hoffman better have been right," she whines. "I better have not read that for nothing!" 

"You trusted Lauren Hoffman? Smart. You get what you deserve then," I tell her and tip my head back to drain the last few drops of soda from the can. "So...what did you think of the books? Did you, like, understand them?" 

"Of course. Why? Didn't you?" 

"Oh...I haven't even started yet," I lie. No way am I admitting to Julie that I fell asleep on page two of _The Tenant of Wildfell Hall_. Who is Anne Bronte? I doubt anyone cares. 

Outside, a car horn blasts. 

"Oh! There's Mom!" Julie cries, jumping out of her chair. She wraps her damp towel back around her waist. "Thanks for inviting me over." 

"Of course. You can come over whenever," I say, rising from my chair. "Just don't bring Paul." 

"Oh! But I promised him he could come next time!" Julie exclaims. "You're breaking his heart, Miss Blume." 

"_Please_ don't call me that. It's so annoying," I snap as I walk Julie to the front door and out onto the porch. The Sterns' Escort is parked in the driveway with Mrs. Stern behind the wheel and Rachel, Julie's older sister, in the front passenger seat, leaning over onto the horn. Mrs. Stern's trying to push her back. Rachel Stern is so weird. And not just Stern weird. She's _weird_ weird. 

Mrs. Stern rolls down her window and sticks her head out. "Hello, Grace!" she calls out. "How is the Fiji Mermaid today?" 

"You know, I found out what that is," I call back. 

Mrs. Stern and Julie laugh. 

"It took you long enough," Julie says with another laugh and then races across the lawn to the car. 

I go back inside the house and toss out our empty soda cans and put away the chips and cookies. Then I put away all the pool equipment. Afterward, there's not much else to do. Even though it's Saturday, my parents went into the office. They left while I was still asleep. I suspect they'll stay overnight. They do that sometimes. They keep a lot of their clothes there and sleep on the couches in their offices and use the shower in the executive lounge. 

The telephone rings as if on cue. 

"Hello?" 

"Grace, this is your mother." 

"Hello, Mother." 

"What are you doing?" 

"I've been in the pool with my friends," I answer. 

"That sounds fun," Mom says. "Listen, your father and I are staying over at the office tonight. We're buried underneath work right now. I swear, we go away for a few days and the place can't function in our absence. Where do all the morons come from? And why do they all work here? Specifically on my floor where I must deal with them on a daily basis." 

"I don't know, Mom. It's a mystery." 

"It's a conspiracy. Someone down in Human Resources hates me. I'll figure out who it is someday. Can you stay overnight with Stacey or Julie? You know your father and I don't like you staying there at night by yourself." 

"I'll go over to Gran's." 

Mom's quiet on the other end. 

"Why don't you go to Stacey's?" she finally suggests. 

"Why?" 

"Because I actually like Maureen McGill," Mom answers. She's quiet again. "Fine. Stay wherever you want." 

"I will." 

After we hang up, I telephone Gran, and then head upstairs to pack my suitcase. I can't really blame my parents for being workaholics, or be upset with them. Their careers are their lives. That's what they always wanted - to work and be successful and be together. They never wanted me. They don't know I know that. Aunt Corinne told me. When I was twelve, I went with her and her family on vacation to Florida. Aunt Corinne and I got into an argument one night over some nasty comments she made about my mother. I thought they were unfair. Aunt Corinne told me that I shouldn't be so quick to stick up for someone who never wanted me in the first place. I was a mistake, an accident, and Mom cried for a week after learning she was pregnant. She wanted to miscarry me. I've never said anything about it and Aunt Corinne never mentioned it again. It's like the conversation never happened, like it only happened in my head. I didn't tell my parents. It's bad enough that I know. I don't need them to know that I know. 

It's nearing dusk when I drive over to Gran's. She's left the garage door open for me and I pull in beside her Mercedes. Brigitta doesn't work on the weekends, so Gran makes dinner for us - grilled lemon chicken and rice. It's always a surprise when she cooks. It's a surprise when anyone in our family cooks. 

"I brought your book back," I tell Gran later in the evening. I'm already in my pajamas - violet-print shorts and a matching top. I get the book from my purse and hand it back to her. 

"You're finished with it already?" she asks, sounding surprised and maybe a little disappointed. "Didn't you like it?" 

"Oh, sure. It was interesting." 

"Good. I pulled some others out for you then," Gran says and starts toward the library, her powder blue silk robe billowing after her. "Last night, I read the book on Fiji that you gave me." 

I raise an eyebrow as I trail behind her. "Really? The whole book?" 

"Yes. It was very interesting," Gran replies and picks up a stack of books from her desk. There are four of them. She brings them over to me. "Here you are, Grace. If you're interested in myths and legends, you'll like these." 

"Oh, thanks," I say, flatly and take the books. Now I have to pretend to read these, too? Maybe I can give them to Julie and she can tell me what they're about. "Hey, Gran?" 

"Yes?" 

"Do you know who Anne Bronte is?" 

Gran chuckles. "Of course," she replies. "I've read all the books by the Bronte sisters. I studied literature when I was at Smith. Didn't you know that?" 

No, I did not. 

"Here, take these," I say and shove her books back into Gran's arms. "Just a minute!" I call and hurry back into the living room where I left my purse. My summer reading list is still folded in my wallet from when I went to the Book Center last week. I return to the library with my list and hand it to Gran. "Have you read these books?" I ask her. 

Gran takes the list and studies it. "Of course," she answers. "I've read all these books. Why?" 

"It's my summer reading list for British Literature. I don't understand the books. Can you help me?" 

"You don't understand them?" Gran replies, perplexed, as if it's the most bizarre statement to ever reach her ears. "Well, certainly, I can help you, Grace. Now...why is _Merchant of Venice_ crossed out?" 

"Because it's anti-Semitic." 

Gran chuckles. "Well, that's silly," she says. "Is _Taming of the Shrew_ crossed out, too?" she asks, squinting at the paper. 

"I don't know. Maybe." 

"Oh...well, I have all these books. We can start right now," Gran says and moves over to one of the bookshelves. 

"Right _now_?" I echo, aghast. _Now_? 

"Why not? There's nothing else to do," Gran answers, pulling books off the shelves. She holds each one out to me. "We'll start with _The Tenant of Wildfell Hall_. I didn't know that book was taught in public schools. I first read it when I was at Miss Kingston's in Rhode Island." 

Gran sits down on the couch and so I figure I must do the same. I sit down next to her. She's absorbed in reading the preface. Good. Maybe she'll wander off to that place she goes, out of reach, and I won't actually have to read and discuss the book tonight. 

No such luck. 

"Would you like to read the preface?" Gran asks me. 

"Do you think I'll be tested on it?" 

"Probably not." 

"Then no." 

"Okay," Gran says and turns to the first page. "Oh. Let me get a pen and notepad. You'll want to take notes." She hands the book to me and stands. 

I stare down at the tiny type on the page. Just the first two lines make my eyes droop. I listen to Gran rummage around in the desk drawers. It's the only sound in the house. It's rather eerie, like my own house in the evenings. 

"Don't you get lonely?" I ask Gran. 

She looks up from the desk drawer. "No," she replies. "I like to be alone." 

"Really?" I say. 

"Yes, of course. But it's nice to have you here tonight," Gran says and crosses back toward me with a notepad, two pens, and a highlighter. 

"You've lived alone a long time though," I tell her as she sits back down. I'm unsure exactly how long my grandfather has been dead. Since before I was born. Like Aunt Margolo, no one hardly talks about him. I guess that in our family, when you're dead, you're dead in more ways than one. "How long were you married?" I ask Gran. 

"Thirty-two years." 

"Was it hard at first? To live alone?" 

"No," Gran answers and opens the notepad. She writes the book title across the top of the first blank sheet. "I adjusted very quickly." 

"But wasn't it odd at first?" I ask, happy to be delaying any actual reading. "It must have been different." 

"Of course it was different. The house no longer smelled like whiskey and cigarette smoke. Now, don't think I don't know what you're doing. Please read the first paragraph and tell me what you don't understand." 

I stare down at the page, disdainfully. 

"Do I need to read it aloud to you?" Gran inquires. 

I sigh and begin to read. 


	4. Chapter 4

Gran makes me breakfast in the morning. It is an unusual way to start the day. The closest my parents come to making breakfast for me is when one of them passes me a cereal box or puts a slice of bread in the toaster. On rare occasions, on the weekends, we go out for breakfast. But that isn't the same. 

Gran sets the plate of french toast down in front of me. "There you are, Grace," she says. "Now don't drown them in butter and syrup. All the fat and calories aren't good for you." 

"I like a lot of syrup," I reply, tipping the syrup bottle over my french toast and squeezing. 

"Oh, well then," Gran says and takes the seat across from me. She sips her coffee and waits for me to hand her the syrup. "What would you like to do after church today?" she asks. 

"I don't know," I say, cutting into my first piece of french toast. 

"Well, if you don't already have plans, I thought we could drive out to the Greenvale Country Club for lunch." 

I raise my eyebrows. "Really?" I reply. First of all, I am relieved she doesn't want to sit around the house reading all day. I'm beginning to think asking for her help was a mistake. She made me read the first hundred pages of that boring book last night. We probably could have read all night and she wouldn't have minded. Second of all, Gran hardly ever wants to go to the club. 

"Yes," Gran answers, cutting her french toast into tiny pieces. "We can eat lunch and then maybe play tennis. The courts at the club are nicer than mine. It'll be a lovely afternoon and the club shouldn't be too crowded. A lot of people are probably away on vacation." 

"That sounds like fun," I say, smiling. 

"Yes, and Rita and Dawn are coming," she says, absolutely casual, and takes one of her tiny bites of french toast. 

I choke on my orange juice. 

"You're surprised," Gran observes and takes another bite. 

"I thought we discussed this," I say, peevishly. Gran's always seemed so easy going. I never realized she was this tenacious. 

"We did," Gran agrees. "And I considered what you said and decided that you didn't give Dawn a fair chance. Rita claims she's a perfectly lovely girl. We'll see them at church anyway. You can introduce Dawn to all your friends." 

"Fine," I say, stiffly. I finish my orange juice. Yeah, right, I'll introduce Dawn to my friends. 

"Thank you for being so agreeable," Gran tells me and rises from her chair. "Would you like more coffee?" 

"No. I'm okay," I answer and begin pushing my french toast around on my plate while watching Gran refill her coffee cup. "You know, Gran," I say, slowly, "I'm not sure Dawn is all that lovely." 

"Why is that?" 

"Well, her stepsister hates her." 

"Sisters always hate each other. Look at Fay and Corinne." 

"Did they fight with Aunt Margolo, too?" I ask. 

Gran doesn't answer right away. She sips her coffee and then turns her back to me. "Yes. That's all any of them ever did. Always screaming and slamming doors. They used to give me such a headache." 

"Why didn't you make them stop?" 

Gran turns back around. She looks confused. "We should get ready for church," she finally says. "We don't want to be late." 

An hour and a half later, we're in Gran's Mercedes on our way to First Methodist, which is right outside downtown Stoneybrook on Stoneybrook Boulevard. Gran has attended First Methodist for fifty years, as long as she's lived in Stoneybrook. My mother went to First Methodist when she was a girl. She doesn't have anything nice to say about it. I started coming here with Gran after The Incident. She always wanted me to go with her before and after The Incident when everything was falling apart in my life, it seemed like a good time to start. It's nice to be devoted to something, to feel like there is something keeping me together. Sometimes it helps, sometimes it does does not. Sometimes it lessens the guilt, sometimes it does not. 

First Methodist is fairly small, like most of the churches in Stoneybrook. Gran and I cross the parking lot together with Gran waving and smiling at all the people she knows. And she knows everyone. I like that. I like that everyone knows me as Allison McCracken's Granddaughter. It's a nice title to have and it means something. 

Mari Drabek, my doubles partner and friend, waits for me in front of the church, seated on the First Methodist sign just like every Sunday morning. Mari and I have been friends since we were kids and even though she chose me over Cokie, we aren't really school friends anymore. We're friends on the tennis team and at church and sometimes at each other's houses after school and on the weekends. At school, she has her group of friends and I have mine. We have things in common - we both love tennis and church, and there are deeper things, too. Things we leave unspoken. Secrets about ourselves, secrets about our parents. 

"Hey, Grace!" Mari greets me, hopping off the First Methodist sign. "Hello, Mrs. McCracken." 

"Hello," Gran replies. "I'll see you after the service, Grace. Have fun at youth group, girls." And then Gran disappears through the entrance. 

Mari and I stand out front and compare outfits for a few minutes like we do every Sunday. Mari's wearing a green paisley-print sundress, which I definitely don't love. I admit that to her. Honesty is very important in friendship. Mari understands this. If I were to ever wear an unflattering outfit I am sure she would tell me. Of course, there has never been such an occurrence, so I can't know for sure. 

When we've finished, Mari and I walk around the back of the chapel to the second building where youth group is held. The high school class is all the way at the end. Mari and I are unofficially in charge. Mari has attended First Methodist her entire life and it is -admittedly - rather clique-ish. Mari claims she's always been in charge. Since coming to First Methodist, I have taken my place beside Mari in the top tier of the youth group. No one ever questions our authority. They simply do as we say, whether it is deciding on the location for the month's youth group trip or choosing the menu for the holiday parties or simply instructing everyone on where to sit. I don't know why anyone allows us to do all this. But they do, so Mari and I keep doing it. 

Mari elbows me in the side when we step through the doorway into our classroom. 

"Is that Mary Anne's stepsister?" she whispers to me and jerks her head in Dawn's direction. 

Dawn's on the other side of the classroom, seated in the second row by herself. She looks slightly better than when I saw her last. She has on black pedal pushers and a royal blue spaghetti-strap tank top. Not hideous. Not really churchwear either. 

"Yes, that's her," I confirm. 

"She's sitting in the second row," Mari points out, as if I'm blind. "She can't sit in the second row." 

"I know," I agree, even though I'm not certain _why_ Dawn can't sit in the second row. There are no hard and fast rules to the seating arrangements. It all depends on our mood. "I'll go tell her to move," I say and stride purposely across the room, stopping in front of the first row of chairs, facing Dawn. 

She looks up at me. "Oh, hi, Grace," she says. 

"You can't sit there," I inform her. 

"Why not?" 

"Because...you can't," I snap. "The first two rows are reserved. You can only sit there if I tell you that you can. I say you can't, so you need to move." 

"You _must_ be kidding," Dawn replies with a laugh. 

I place my hands on my hips and stare down at her. 

"Oh, my God..." Dawn gasps and laughs again. 

"You're at church," I remind her. "Please don't break the third commandment." 

"Well, I'm not moving," she informs me. 

I stare at her hard for a long moment. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't relent. She stares back and appears completely unbothered. I whirl around and stomp to the back of the room near the counter and sink. 

"Lindsey Dupree!" I bark. 

Lindsey spins around so fast she whips Elise Coates in the face with her long blonde braid. She stares at me and makes this weird puckered face. 

I place a hand on my hip. "You don't have to sit next to Alexander Kurtzman today," I tell her. "See that blonde, poorly dressed girl over there? That's where you're sitting. Enjoy." I turn back around without waiting for her response. Maybe Dawn will listen to me next time once she's spent an hour with bizarre Lindsey Dupree. 

It is not an enjoyable hour. 

Mari and I walk back around to the front of the chapel together, so she can wait for her family and I can wait for Gran. Usually, I stay for the eleven o' clock church service. Gran doesn't mind sitting through it twice. But because Gran already made plans with Mrs. Porter and it's a half hour drive to Greenvale, we're leaving early. Mari and I stand together beside the First Methodist sign, watching the congregation stream out. 

"Hey," I say to her. "Do you want to come to lunch with my grandmother and I? We're going to the Greenvale Country Club." 

Mari wrinkles her nose. "Uh...no thanks, Grace," she replies. "I don't think my parents would like that. I mean...that place is so snobby." 

"My grandmother's not a snob," I protest. 

"I didn't say she was. Oh, there are my parents now! I'll see you later, Grace. Call me!" Mari runs off toward her parents. Together, the three of them disappear into a sea of people. 

I realize Dawn's standing a few feet away near the entrance of the chapel. She catches my eye, but I shift my gaze away from hers. Gran finally appears in the doorway followed by Mr. and Mrs. Porter. I hang back a moment, watching Dawn speak to her grandparents and then finally I approach them, sidling up to Gran, still mostly ignoring Dawn. Mr. Porter walks us to Gran's Mercedes and then continues on to his own car. 

"Did you enjoy youth group, Dawn?" Gran asks when we're in the car and latching our belts. 

"It was all right," Dawn answers, pulling her long blonde hair out from underneath the strap. "Do you know that Grace and Mari Drabek dictate where everyone may sit?" she asks. Mrs. Porter turns around. "What?" 

"They tell everyone where to sit." 

Mrs. Porter stares at me. "Why?" she asks. 

I could kill Dawn. 

Instead, I shrug. 

Mrs. Porter looks at me a moment longer, then turns around again. "Allison..." she says with hesitation. 

Gran's digging through her purse, searching for her sunglasses. She glances up. "What?" she asks. I think she's missed the entire conversation. Or maybe she's pretending. 

"Nothing," Mrs. Porter sighs and settles back in her seat. 

Half an hour is an eternity when no one speaks. 

It's a quarter to twelve when Gran turns up the hill to the Greenvale Country Club and pulls into the parking lot nearest the clubhouse. I haven't been to the club very often. Gran brings me a few times a year. I don't think she ever comes on her own. 

Inside the club, it takes forever to actually reach the dining room. Every couple of feet, someone new stops Gran and Mrs. Porter. Dawn and I are introduced to more than a dozen people, several of whom I know I've met before. They don't seem to remember. There's a lot of fake cheer and plastic smiles at the Greenvale Country Club. I've noticed this before. There's also a lot of waving, clapping, and over-enthused expressions. Coming to the Greenvale Country Club always makes my face hurt. 

We're seated at a square table beside one of the huge windows overlooking the golf course. Even though it's barely noon on a Sunday, golf cart after golf cart whizzes by down below. The dark green of the perfectly manicured course and the slight hills that roll beyond it make the view so serene. Bright light streams in from outside, spilling over our table, and when it hits Dawn, who's seated across from me, her hair almost appears to glow. 

Not that I would ever tell her that. 

"Are the chicken caesar salad's any good here?" Dawn asks. 

"Everything is good here," I reply, testily. I'm still upset with her. "It's the Greenvale Country Club." 

"Everything better be good," Gran says, studying her menu, "for what I pay in membership fees." 

"You know, Allison..." Mrs. Porter begins in a very nonchalant voice that cannot possibly have anything good coming with it. "Charles and I are discussing not renewing our membership at the end of the year." 

Gran looks up from her menu. "Why not?" she wants to know. "You've been members here almost as long as me." 

"Well...Charles and I think that the club...well, it's not very progressive, is it? The regulations and policies are quite archaic, wouldn't you say? We've gotten such a bad reputation in the last few years with all the talk of discriminatory practices and so many of the older families leaving - the Wallingfords, the Ellenburgs, the Riversons, the Wellers. They all withdrew their memberships at the same time. I think they were making a statement." 

"What does that have to do with us? We're not on the membership committee." 

"Well, no..." Mrs. Porters says, no longer sounding nonchalant, but rather a bit exasperated. "But really, Allison - " 

Dawn interrupts her. "What discriminatory practices?" she asks her grandmother. 

"Well, Dawn...the Greenvale Country Club is very old fashioned and so are its members. The membership committee is known for...rejecting new members based on...superficial circumstances..." 

Dawn's mouth gapes open. It's quite unattractive. She leans forward and hisses, "They don't let in minorities?" Dawn glances around the dining room and her eyes widen. "Everyone in here is white! Granny, how can you belong to a place like this?" she demands. 

Mrs. Porter's cheeks flush. 

"It used to be like that. It isn't like that anymore," Gran insists. She's returned to studying her menu. "Anyone may join." 

"In theory," Mrs. Porter says. "But nothing has actually changed, has it?" 

Gran shrugs. "I'm never here, so I wouldn't know," she answers and sets down her menu. "I'm ordering the chicken caesar salad. What are you ordering, Grace?" 

Dawn tosses down her menu. "I'm not eating here," she announces. "This is appalling!" 

Dawn is completely overreacting. What is a hunger strike going to prove? It's not like anyone cares. She isn't even a member. And she's eaten here before. I know because I've seen her with her grandparents. This is so Dawn Schafer. In middle school, she was always berating us about something. She hasn't changed a bit. No wonder Mary Anne's so irritated with her. 

When the waitress comes, Dawn refuses to order anything but a ginger ale. If she's going on a protest she shouldn't order anything at all. I point that out to her. She doesn't listen. Gran and Mrs. Porter order the chicken caesar salad. I order the filet mignon, solely because it is the only red meat on the lunch menu. 

"How are you enjoying being back in Stoneybrook?" Gran asks Dawn when the waitress brings our lunch. 

Dawn shrugs. "It's okay," she answers. "I'd rather be home in California though." 

Mrs. Porter stares at the chicken and lettuce she's speared with her fork and turns her mouth down in a small, sad frown. 

"Why don't you go back then?" I ask. It's not intended to be mean. It's a truthful question. I wouldn't hang around somewhere all summer if it's not where I wished to be. 

Dawn frowns and turns her glass around on the table in a circle, leaving a ring of water that smears with the rotation. "Mom wants me here," she says. "I can't go back to California anyway. My dad and stepmom are out of the country. That's why Jeff and I came out early. Dad and Carol are expecting another baby. She's only about three months along and she wanted Gracie - my little sister - to see Europe before the baby arrives. Carol wants Gracie to be very cultured. So, they're touring Europe for the next month." 

"That's weird," I reply and that's the truth. "Why aren't you with them? I'd be furious if my parents went on vacation and left me behind!" 

Dawn shrugs again and I notice that Mrs. Porter's become absolutely enthralled in her salad. 

I wait a moment then ask, "How old is your sister?" 

"Almost four." 

Gran chuckles. "A four year old isn't going to remember Europe!" she cries. "What a silly idea! And who wants to drag a screaming four year old through the streets of Europe, from country to country? That sounds like a nightmare to me. Where in Europe are they visiting?" 

"Oh...all over the place," Dawn answers, dully. "England, France, Italy, Spain, Greece. Everywhere." 

"I hope they aren't going to Scotland," Gran says. "When I was a girl, my parents took me there every year. Such a dreary, dreadful place. We never went anywhere else." Gran stabs her fork into her salad. 

My parents have never taken _me_ to Europe. No country dreadful or otherwise. Why have I never thought to ask? I pick our vacation locale every year, but always choose somewhere sunny and sandy like Florida or the Bahamas. Suddenly, I am dying to go to Europe. Stacey's been and Emily's been _three_ times, which is just disgusting. And Julie's grandparents promised to take her to Spain after graduation. Well, I'll simply have to go next summer, too. 

After lunch, Gran and Mrs. Porter shoo Dawn and I away to entertain ourselves when they sit down to chat with two women who are so old that their membership numbers are, quite possibly, "001" and "002". I inform Dawn that we will play tennis. She doesn't really have a choice. I brought my tennis gear with me and after we retrieve it from Gran's Mercedes, I lead Dawn into the locker room so I may change out of my church clothes. 

"Your grandmother's strange," Dawn tells me, very matter-of-factly. She's seated on a bench across from me, watching me unbutton my blouse. 

"_Excuse me_?" I reply, nearly choking on the words. 

"Granny and Pop-Pop told me she was," Dawn says, just as matter-of-factly. "Of course, I've met her a bunch of times over the years, but I've never actually sat down and had a conversation with her. She's strange. Granny said she can be a hard person to be around." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" I snap, shoving the blouse into my tote bag. Gran and Mrs. Porter are supposed to be friends! What is she doing, going around making rude comments about my grandmother? 

"I don't know. That's just what Granny said," Dawn answers with a shrug. "She said it isn't very easy to be your grandmother's friend. Not all the time. She said your grandmother can be very witty and funny, but that other times...she's...not." 

"No one is perfect," I say, angrily, pulling my electric blue tennis dress over my head. "Except of course, you. In your own mind." 

"I never said I was perfect," Dawn replies. "There's no reason to get so upset. Unless, of course, you already know your grandmother's strange and you don't want to admit it." 

I narrow my eyes at her. "It's no wonder Mary Anne detests you! You're so antagonistic!" I cry and rip my hairbrush fast and furiously through my red hair. Then I gather it in a ponytail and wrap a band around it, so quick I twist and tug several stray strands. Dawn Schafer doesn't know what she's talking about. Gran is _not_ strange. Sometimes she's moody and sometimes she drifts in and out of conversations, but any of that hardly makes her _strange_. Dawn doesn't know what she's talking about. Two lunches doesn't make her an expert on me and my family. 

"Jeez, don't have a fit, Grace," Dawn tells me. "There's no need for dramatics. I didn't realize you'd react like _that_. I apologize. Your grandmother is _totally_ normal." 

"Yeah, thanks for the sincerity," I say, sarcastically. 

"I didn't say I didn't _like_ her. She's okay. Now, do you have an extra hair band?" 

I find a spare band at the bottom of my tote bag and toss it at her. I try to toss it with great fury and force, but it's a hair band, so that doesn't quite work. 

"I'll get my racket myself, thanks," Dawn says, casually, grabbing one of the rackets I set on the bench. She knows I intended to throw that at her next. 

"The courts are this way," I inform her, stiffly, leading her out the side door. 

Dawn jogs after me until she catches up. I make it very difficult, taking long, quick strides. Dawn keeps up. She keeps up while swinging her racket through the air. 

"If you hit me, I'll shove that racket down your throat," I growl. 

"I won't hit you," Dawn promises. 

"I can't necessarily promise the same." 

"I can take you. Just don't wrap those legs of yours around my neck. I enjoy breathing, thanks." 

And Dawn calls my grandmother strange. 

"When are you going to find your own friends so I can stop hanging out with you?" I demand, as we move down the hill toward the tennis courts. 

Dawn doesn't answer right away. "Who am I supposed to hang out with?" she finally replies. "I really only lived here for a year and that was ages ago. Mary Anne won't even speak to me and for totally stupid reasons. Stacey is on Mary Anne's side and probably Kristy is, too, wherever she may be across town. The only one who still speaks to me from the old days is Claudia. Of course, Claudia still speaks to everyone, so maybe I'm not that special." 

"You're not," I agree. "Claudia Kishi is nice to everyone." 

Dawn is quiet a moment. "I saw my mom yesterday," she finally says. It sounds rather random, like she's continuing an earlier conversation, picking up where we left off. "I had dinner with her and Richard. Mom told me that you're just like your mother when she was in high school." 

My shoulders stiffen. I glance over at Dawn. She glances at me. I've heard that before from Mrs. Spier. She said it to Mary Anne once. It was sometime freshman year and Mary Anne and I hadn't been friends very long. I'd been over at Mary Anne's house and the next day, she said to me at school, "_Sharon says you're just like your mom when she was in high school._" She chirped it quite happily. She thought is was a compliment. I knew it wasn't. 

"I imagine I am," I reply, shoulders still stiff, but voice relaxed and airy. "My mother was very popular. She was the Homecoming Queen and the Prom Queen." 

"And the tennis star. And the swim team star. Yeah, Mom told me," Dawn replies and unlatches the gate to the tennis courts. There are already a few people on the courts, mostly milling around and socializing. "I asked her about your aunt," Dawn says, rather out of nowhere. "I asked why they stopped being friends, but Mom wouldn't tell me. Well, she said it was so long ago that she couldn't remember. I'm certain she was lying. Whatever happened, she remembers. She got this weird look on her face. So, then, I asked her why your aunt killed herself. Mom said she didn't know. Maybe she was lying about that, too. I don't know." 

I turn to face Dawn. We're standing in the middle of an empty court near the net. "Why are you so interested in my aunt?" I ask, irritably. We don't talk about Aunt Margolo. It seems wrong for an outsider to do so. 

"I'm interested in why someone would want to kill herself. That's all," Dawn explains. "Why do you think she killed herself?" 

My shoulders stiffen again. I stare at Dawn, tapping my racket on my open palm. "Why would I know why someone would want to kill herself?" I demand and feel my cheeks begin to burn, so I whirl around and stomp away. "I'm ready to play now!" 

I trounce Dawn without any effort. I play even harder than normal, my racket connecting with the ball with as much power as possible. Dawn ducks out of the way more than once as the ball streaks toward her, hot and angry like I rage inside. And when the game is over, even though I've won, even though I've won without any competition, I hurl my racket across the court and it slams against the chainlink cage, clanging against the metal and then against the ground. 

"You know you won, right?" Dawn asks, huffing and holding her side. 

I ignore her and turn away, pacing my side of the court, hands on my hips, breathing in and cooling down. I walk it off. And I'm okay. 

I pick up my racket and twirl it in my hand. "Want another game?" I ask, casually. 

Dawn eyes me, cautiously. "Not really," she admits. 

"Why not?" 

"Because I don't like tennis and you're just going to beat me," Dawn answers and her voice rises a bit. "I guess I hit a nerve there earlier," she observes. 

"You did nothing of the sort," I argue and begin walking away. "You can't play at all, so we'll do doubles. I'll find us someone to play," I call back to her as I cross to the court entrance. There are two girls by the water fountain. They're around our age and I've seen them at the club before. I stop a few feet away and place a hand on my hip. "Do you want to play doubles?" I ask without offering an introduction. 

The brunette appraises me, eyes sweeping up and down. "Okay," she says. "I'm Kara Ferguison." 

"I'm Grace Blume and that's Dawn," I say, nodding toward Dawn who's joined us by the fountain. I look over at the raven-haired girl leaning over the water fountain, drinking. "Who are you?" I ask. 

She raises her eyes, then straightens up, her mouth hanging open slightly. "Meg Jardin," she answers. 

"Meg Jardin, we're going to kick your ass," I tell her. 

Her eyes widen. She doesn't close her mouth. 

Her friend points at me. "Do you drive a white Corvette?" she asks. 

"Yes," I reply. 

She laughs. "I knew I'd seen you before!" she exclaims. "I live on Rosedale Road. You hang around with that crazy Emily girl. We hate that family. Those weird Jews need to keep their damn twenty cats out of our yard." 

"What's your problem?" Dawn demands, crossly. 

I regard Kara and her gap mouthed friend, coolly. "No, it's okay," I tell Dawn. "Let's play." I turn and walk away. "Stand over there," I order Dawn. 

Dawn stares at me a moment, then obeys. "There's something wrong with you!" she calls to me. 

"Stay on your side of the court," I snap back. "Three sets?" I shout to Kara and Meg, who have taken their positions on their side of the court. 

Kara nods and kneels down to retie her shoelace. 

And I seize my opportunity. 

I toss the tennis ball into the air and whack it hard, sending it sailing through the air, so fast I hear it moving, whistling like the wind. It smacks Kara dead in the center of her forehead. 

Kara teeters backward and falls on her ass. She swears loudly and clutches her forehead. "You did that on purpose!" she screams. 

"Well, it wasn't an accident," I reply. 

Kara swears again. 

Dawn actually laughs. 

"We can go now," I inform her and stride away, straight past Kara and Meg without giving them another look. 

Dawn catches up with me, still laughing, light and breezy and surprised. "Amazing," she says. "You may have some semblance of a soul." 

"Or perfect aim at least," I say, starting back up the hill in long, sure steps. "I told you, I'm a tennis star." 

"You just ruined the moment." 

If Dawn Schafer can't handle honesty, that's her problem. 

We leave the Greenvale Country Club as soon as Dawn and I track down our grandmothers. Dawn announces she had a "charming" time and no one misses her sarcasm. She won't be back. No one doubts that. 

Half an hour later, we pull into Gran's driveway. It's almost four o' clock and the day has slipped away. Gran and I say our goodbyes to Dawn and Mrs. Porter, then go inside the house. I head upstairs to pack my things and Gran follows behind me. Inside the guest bedroom, she helps me fold my clothes and gather my cosmetics and toiletries and pack them all away. It doesn't look like I stayed one night. It looks like I stayed ten. 

"Are you getting along better with Dawn now?" Gran wants to know. 

"Not really," I reply and put the top down on my suitcase. I zip it closed. "I don't like her. I've never liked her. Besides, Mary Anne is my friend. She and Dawn don't get along." 

"That has nothing to do with you." 

"Sure it does. It does because Mary Anne's my friend," I insist. I forgot to pack my hairdryer. I unzip the suitcase and stuff it inside. "Dawn's really interested in Aunt Margolo," I say without glancing up at Gran. 

I wonder what her expression looks like. She doesn't speak for quite a while. 

"Why would anyone be interested in Margolo?" Gran finally asks. 

"Dawn wants to know why she killed herself," I say, bluntly. Then I am embarrassed for putting it out there like that, harsh and bare, thrust into the air and left to hang without answer. 

There's more silence from Gran. 

I finally glance up and Gran's face is unreadable. She brushes the carrot red hair from her eyes. "Margolo couldn't accept the bitter disappointments of life," Gran answers in a neutral, emotionless tone. "Life isn't fair. The sooner a person realizes that, the easier life will be. We all must play the hand we are dealt. That's what my mother told me." 

And then Gran walks out of the room. 

End of conversation. 

My own mother's sitting in the living room when I return home. She's seated on the couch in a plum-colored business suit and matching stiletto heels. She has the coffee table pulled close to her and spread across it is a blanket of white papers. She places them in stacks and then picks them up again and moves them. A space has been cleared on the right hand corner for her coaster and glass. A tumbler of clear liquid. Is the rum all out? 

"Where have you been all this time?" she asks me without looking up. 

"At Gran's," I answer and set my suitcase down on the carpet. "When did you get home? Where's Dad?" 

"Half an hour ago. In the shower," Mom replies and shuffles another stack of papers. "Or taking a nap. Your father's getting old. He can't keep up with me." 

"Who can?" 

Mom looks up at last. She smiles. "You've been playing tennis," she observes. "Congratulations. You've found the one thing outside books and flowers that my mother has any passing interest in. You've been with her all this time?" 

"Yes." 

Mom goes back to her papers. "You're spending too much time with her," Mom tells me. "It isn't healthy. She'll get inside your head. No good can come of extended exposure to my mother and her soul-sucking ways. Just because she's miserable, she thinks everyone else should be miserable, too." 

"Gran doesn't seem miserable to me." 

Mom snorts. 

"Well, I don't see it," I reply and refuse to hide the testiness in my voice. I want Mom to hear it. I want her to sit up and take notice. 

"I don't want you spending so much time over there," Mom says. 

"Why not?" I demand and allow more testiness to creep in. It bends in my words and makes itself known and clear. 

Mom raises her eyes to mine. She stares at me, unblinking and without emotion etched clear on her face. She simply stares and studies me. It's unnerving in more than one way. When she stares at me like that I see myself. I see myself in thirty years. And when I look at Gran, I see myself in fifty. I see myself and I see my mother. Sometimes it feels like we are the same person, displayed at different stages of life, the same body and face aging with the years. When I look through their photo albums, it's like my life flashes before my eyes. It is unnerving. Because I'm not always sure I like what I see. 

"Fine," Mom says and moves her gaze from mine. "Spend as much time as you want over there. My mother will disappoint you. She disappoints everyone." Mom stands and raises her glass. She downs the entire drink. Then she leaves the living room, crossing into the office. I watch her slip behind the desk and pour another drink. She's raising the glass to her lips when she catches my eye. She hesitates and watches me. Sometimes I get the feeling there are things she'd like to tell me. But she never does. Instead she downs her drink in a single gulp. 


	5. Chapter 5

My mother never sleeps.

I wake at three-thirty in the morning on Monday and half-asleep, wander into my bathroom. When I come out, I've splashed water on my face and am slightly more alert and hear through my open bedroom door the sound drifting up the stairs. It is the most familiar sound in my house, second only to the clinking of empty bottles at the bottom of the wastebasket. It is the spinning of the wheels on my mother's stationary bike.

I go downstairs, rubbing my eyes and trying not to stumble on the stairs in my vaguely drunken sleepy state. This isn't unusual. My mother keeps odd hours. It is not surprising to wake in the middle of the night and discover her tapping away on her laptop or pedaling on her stationary bike or one time, reorganizing the hall closet. The typical routine is that my parents fall into bed between eleven and midnight after too many tumblers of gin and too many hours bent over charts and figures. At four, my mother's up and in a spare bedroom doing her jazzercise videos. At six, they catch the train into New York and afterward everything repeats again and again and again.

Sometimes my mother never goes to bed at all. And then sometimes she wakes at strange hours and carries on as if she's living a normal day. In a way, I understand. I don't always sleep very well either. Sometimes I spend the night tossing in peculiar dreams that wake me suddenly with a start and I never remember them.

Tonight has been one of those nights. Dawn Schafer has me so upset. I don't see why she must pick at the memory of Aunt Margolo, making it bleed like a scab. The past should stay buried. It should not rise again. Some things need to remain where they are because they are there for a reason. Dawn Schafer doesn't need to kick them up again. It's none of her business. And she doesn't need to remind me of things I wish to forget, regrettable errors I've made, and buried.

I pause in the doorway to the office, where Mom sits on the stationary bike, pedaling frantically, as if she is truly late, as if she is truly on her way somewhere. She's changed out of her pajamas. Instead, she's wearing pale green sweatpants and a white t-shirt. She's also wearing her glasses. They're dark purple plastic frames and are sliding down her nose. Dad and I are the only ones who have seen her in her glasses. During the day, she wears contact lenses. At night, she wears her glasses on a gold and plum chain. Emily's mother has the same chain, but I'm much too nice to ever tell Mom that.

"What are you doing up?" I ask Mom, leaning inside the doorway.

Mom's in the far right corner, legs pumping furiously, and even though she's been staring straight at me, she appears taken aback when I speak, surprised to see me there. "What are you doing up?" she echoes.

"I woke up," I reply.

"So did I."

"How long have you been on the bike?" I ask.

Mom glances down at the console and then back up at me. "An hour and a half," she answers.

That isn't unusual. Sometimes she stays on for two or three.

"Are you going back to bed?" I ask her.

"No. What's the point? I have to do my video at four anyway and then shower and dress for the day. Who has time for sleep? I got almost four hours. That's enough. Sleep is overrated," Mom says and takes her hands off the handlebars. She waves them in the air. "I woke up and my mind was all jumbled. This helps clear it. I feel so much better now. Sleep can't do that."

"I guess not," I agree.

"What are your plans for the day?"

I shrug. "I don't know. Swim, see Julie, see Mari. Something like that," I answer and come further into the room. I sit down on the brown leather couch and angle myself toward Mom so that I face her. "I'll probably go over to Gran's."

"Are you trying to aggravate me?"

"No."

"Just checking."

"She's helping me with my summer reading. It's for British Literature and I don't understand the books."

"Finally," Mom sighs, dramatically, "my mother makes herself useful. Two out of three isn't bad, Grace. Tennis and now books. If you ask her to help you design a butterfly garden she may die of ecstasy! Now, why don't you understand the books?"

"Have you ever tried reading a book written in stiff, archaic language?"

"I see your point. What are you reading?"

"Right now Gran and I are reading _The Tenant of Wildfell Hall_."

"What the hell is that?"

I shrug. "Some boring book by Anne Bronte."

"Anne Bronte? Who the hell cares about Anne Bronte? Why aren't you reading books by the sisters whose names people can remember?"

I shrug again.

"You know why your teacher assigned that book? So, it'll be harder for you to find a copy of the movie to rent."

"Is that what you're advocating?"

"No," Mom replies. She wipes her brow with the back of her hand. "You should read the book. If you _tried_ a little harder, Grace..."

I roll my eyes.

"You may roll your eyes," Mom tells me. "Of course, you're rolling them because you know I'm right. I understand. If my mother had ever looked up from the hydrangeas long enough to offer any noteworthy advice, I probably wouldn't have listened either. What else are you reading? I hope it's something I've actually heard of. Or else I'll feel very uncultured and uneducated."

"We're supposed to read a play by Shakespeare."

Mom screws up her face. "They're still making you read that?" she demands. "I read fifty billion Shakespearean plays in high school and college and never once has any of them been of any use to me in the real world. Don't let your teacher tell you differently. Never once has anyone walked into my office and demanded I recite from _King Lear_. Which play are you reading?"

"I don't know," I answer and run my fingers back through my hair. My mind is foggy from lack of sleep. I don't understand how Mom can sit on that bike, spinning fast to nowhere, perfectly alert and chipper. "It keeps changing."

"It really doesn't matter. A man dresses as a woman, a woman dresses as a man, no one notices, a bunch of people get married, the end. That's all you need to know."

"Thanks for the crash course, Mom."

"You're welcome."

We fall silent and it stretches out, lingering on over the whirring of the stationary bike. For as little as we see each other, we should have so much to say, to fill the room with. So much happens in the other's absence and here we sit, me exhausted on the couch, Mom pumping her legs at an inhuman speed, and there is nothing else. The silence simply stretches on. 

This isn't how it is with other mothers and their daughters.

"I guess I'll go back to bed now," I announce when the silence has dragged on too far.

"Okay, Grace," Mom replies and pushes her glasses into place. "Have a good day. I'll see you tonight."

"Okay, Mom."

I go back upstairs to my room and slip back into bed, pulling the comforter over me. I don't sleep. I've left the door open and downstairs I still hear the turning of the wheels on Mom's bike. After awhile, the sound ceases and Mom's footfalls bound up the stairs and down the hall toward the spare bedroom where she keeps her jazzercise equipment. The door shuts behind her and I hear nothing else, nothing else for a very long time and then I fall asleep.

* * *

When I wake again, it's eight o' clock and even though that's disgustingly early for summertime, I get out of bed. I'm not fully awake yet. In my bathroom, I splash cool water on my face and brush my teeth, then return to the bedroom to do my crunches and sit ups. One hundred of each. I know the water's likely freezing but afterward, I pull on a swimsuit and head to the backyard, where I dive into the pool without testing the water. It is freezing and startles me awake and alert. I swim two hundred laps. I count in sets of twenty and never lose track.

I clear my head when I swim. I think of nothing but the goal at the other end of the pool and when I reach it, I tuck and roll and do it over again. Again and again. In sets of twenty until I reach two hundred. I keep my mind on that end and everything else melts away, disintegrates to the world above the water.

Marta, the housekeeper, shows up after my shower while I'm eating a bowl of cereal beside the kitchen sink. Marta goes about her business. She usually pretends I am not here even when I really am. She does her job and then she leaves. There's nothing in between. It isn't so odd, really, being in this house and not being seen.

For today, I dress in black capri pants with black heeled sandals, which I pair with a black and white sleeveless shirt. It criss-crosses in the back. Mom bought it for me in New York last month. Since it's summer, I pull my hair back in another ponytail, wrapping a thick black scrunchie around it. I curl the ends with the iron and then slip black hoops into my ears. I look fabulous and realize it isn't for anyone at all.

No one answers at Julie's or Mari's. I try Stacey's house on the off chance that Mary Anne may be there. I know Stacey's at Stoneybrook U. Mary Anne's probably at her quilting club, or whatever she does in the mornings, or maybe even already at the Kid Center. I have plenty of other friends, of course, but not ones I see much outside of school. Since there isn't anything else to do, I lock up the house and drive to Bainbridge Estates. When I was little, I hardly ever saw Gran. It was mostly only on major holidays - Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. Those are the only times a year Mom ever sees Gran and Aunt Corinne. She says if she saw them more than that, she'd kick them both in the teeth. The three of them spend the holidays squabbling over petty things, like whether there are too many pickles in the potato salad and whether the tree is leaning too far to the right. Mom and Aunt Corinne do the bulk of the arguing. Holidays usually aren't very pleasant.

When I was a kid, I sometimes saw Gran other times. Mom and Dad were always in New York anyway and Catherine, who was my nanny until I was twelve, didn't much care where I went. It wasn't until after The Incident that I started coming to Gran's so much. Until then, I'd spent all my time at Cokie's, all my time with Cokie. When that ended and everything changed, I didn't have much to do or anywhere to go after school and on weekends for a long time.

Gran isn't home. I peek through the window to the garage and see her car there. I walk around back to check the garden, even though it's a little late in the day for her to be out there. She gardens in the early mornings and early evenings when it isn't too hot and she doesn't risk getting sunburned. She isn't in the backyard, but I find her gardening equipment stacked neatly beside one of the flower beds. I knock on the backdoor. Sometimes Gran simply doesn't answer the door. I don't hear Penelope yipping obnoxiously though, so Gran probably took her on a walk. I go back around to the front of the house and sit down in one of the wicker chairs on the wraparound porch. I wait.

A few minutes later, I watch Dawn Schafer come out of the front door of the Gates' house. The Gates' live directly across the street from Gran and next door to the Porters. I used to sometimes play with Janet Gates when we were kids. She's only a year older than me and used to be fun. She became a lot less fun when we entered middle school and she just started looking tacky. She got knocked up in high school by Sam Thomas, who is slime, and her parents made him marry her. It really wasn't that shocking to anyone. I sort of feel sorry for her since that's the Christian thing to do. But then, it's her own fault.

Dawn crosses the street toward me. She's dressed the same way as usual - poorly. Today she has on a dark gray sweat skirt and black flip-flops with a turquoise scoop-neck shirt over a white shirt. Even though it's midday, she's wearing a dark gray zip-up sweatshirt. Apparently, Connecticut in the summertime is just too cold for her.

"Hey," she says, walking up the porch steps. "Is your grandmother home?"

"Yes. I'm just sitting on the porch for my own personal enjoyment."

"You could have stopped at 'yes'," Dawn says. She reaches into the pocket of her sweatshirt. "I wanted to show her this," Dawn says, pulling out a postcard. "Jeff, my brother, brought it over this morning. My dad and stepmom sent it to me. It's from Scotland!"

I manage to stifle a laugh as I reach out for the postcard. I take it from Dawn's outstretched hand and look it over. "I'm sorry to disappoint you," I say, flipping the postcard over, "but Swansea is in Wales, not Scotland."

Dawn cocks an eyebrow. "Really? How do you know that?"

I shrug.

Dawn takes the postcard back and reads it over. "It doesn't mention Wales. Oh, well. I thought it was in Scotland. But hey, it says here that they're headed for Glasgow. That's in Scotland, right?"

"Yes. It's the largest city."

Dawn's eyebrow cocks again.

"Multicultural Day at Stoneybrook Middle School," I explain. "I had to do a presentation."

"And you remember after all this time. Impressive," Dawn says and slides the postcard back into her pocket. "I saw your grandmother leave with her dog almost an hour ago. She's still gone? I don't think that's good for the dog."

"Maybe you could stage a protest," I suggest. "You could set up signs in the front yard. You could chain yourself to Penelope's dog house."

"Maybe I will," Dawn replies.

"What were you doing at the Gates' house?" I ask.

"Playing with Amy."

"Who's Amy?"

"Uh...Sam and Janet's daughter," Dawn answers, as if I'm supposed to know the names of all the illegitimate children in Stoneybrook. "Mrs. Gates watches her during the day and she told me I could come over and play with Amy anytime. I like little kids. I guess you can't understand that."

"I like little kids," I say, testily. I just don't necessarily wish to play with them. I don't think that makes me some child-hating freak. "Maybe you could start the Baby-Sitters Club up again," I suggest with a hint of sarcasm.

"I think Claudia's the only one who would rejoin. Well, at least we'd have the old headquarters back," Dawn says and chuckles. "I don't baby-sit much anymore. There isn't enough time. I mean, out in California. Here, everyone has their regular sitters already. Claudia baby-sits a lot in the evenings and on the weekends still. And Mary Anne's always at the Marshalls. I think they're the only ones who still sit. Maybe Kristy, but I don't know."

"Stacey never baby-sits," I say. "But she's always at that Kid Center," I add a bit disdainfully.

"Richard wanted me to get a job," Dawn tells me, "but no one's hiring now. I mean, it's not like there's a ton of jobs for high schoolers in Stoneybrook. And I don't have a car, so it's not like I can get a job in Stamford or anything. I asked Mary Anne and Stacey to help me get hired at the Kid Center, but Mary Anne refused. Stacey didn't really answer. I mean, jeez, I could work in the mornings. It's not like they'd have to see me." Dawn sighs, heavily. "I don't remember Stoneybrook being so boring. My friend Sunny will be out later this summer though. But until then..." Dawn raises her shoulders.

Dawn and Sunny? How California granola. But I'm in a courteous mood and bite my tongue.

"It isn't so bad," I tell her. "That is, if you actually have friends."

Dawn rolls her eyes. "And where are _your_ friends?"

I don't blush. I fight that back. "Well," I say, easily, "you know where Stacey and Mary Anne are. Emily Bernstein's on vacation and then, Julie and Mari just aren't home right now. Of course, I have lots of others friends, but it's summer and everyone's on vacation. Besides, I _enjoy_ visiting my grandmother. She's not strange at all." I pause a moment. "And I am usually very busy with Julie and Emily," I add. That's mostly true. The past two summers, I've mostly spent with them. They're always around and not working or baby-sitting. But hanging out with Julie and Emily can be a trial. I need breaks.

"I can't see you and Emily Bernstein as friends. She's so intense and together."

"Thanks ever so much," I reply, sarcastically. "And I don't think you know me or Emily well enough to make that judgment."

"My apologies," Dawn says, lightly. "That Julie seems like an odd duck. I mean, I know I've only met her a few times. When Mary Anne started talking about her freshman year, I didn't even know who she _was_. I had to look her up in my seventh grade yearbook. Then I remembered that, yeah, she was that blonde girl with the braces who was always attached to Emily's side. They're still like that?"

"They're practically married."

"Maybe Mary Anne and Stacey should get married," Dawn suggests, quite seriously. "I think Stacey would be okay with that. I've never known anyone to do such a one-eighty personality-wise. That girl was so boy-crazy in middle school!"

"Mm-hmm," is all I say, nodding vaguely. I know why Stacey made that one-eighty. Or at least, I have suspicions, if not the full truth. Stacey doesn't know. She doesn't know that I am completely aware of what she was doing in eighth grade while dating Robert Brewster and Jeremy Rudolph. She was giving them oral sex. In eighth grade, which is pretty gross. I heard about it from Julie back in eighth grade when we didn't really know Stacey. Julie heard about it from Paul who heard it straight from Robert Brewster. Paul and Robert were on the SMS basketball team together. Emily never believed the rumor. I disagree. I think it's true and it explains some things about Stacey. But I would never ask her about it.

"Why don't you have a boyfriend?" Dawn asks me. She leans back against the porch railing, half-perching on it. "You seem like the type who would never be without one."

"I have high standards," I reply and it's true. There is not a boy in Stoneybrook or the surrounding area who is worth an extended amount of my time. Or if there is, I have yet to meet him. "And no one can reach them."

Dawn snorts and rolls her eyes. "I'm sure you really believe that, too," she says and pauses. "I have a boyfriend. Well, sort of. He'll be a sophomore at Cal State Northridge in the fall. We're taking a break for the summer though." Dawn pauses again and watches me. "I may go home this afternoon. I mean, home here in Stoneybrook. Granny and Pop-Pop want me to try again. Jeff's back there. I don't know how long it'll last. Richard's bad enough always nagging and picking at me, but Mom..." Dawn sighs and doesn't finish that sentence. "It's like being in some twisted tug-of-war game between them. They both want to be in control. They both want to run the house. I don't see why either of them has to be in charge."

And I don't see why Dawn's telling me all this. I would never admit such things to her.

At first, I don't respond, uncertain how she expects me to respond. Finally, I just speak the thought that first enters my head. "My mom's in charge at our house. Because she's smarter and makes more money. It doesn't bother my dad. Of course, they agree on almost everything anyway." I pause and think another moment, considering that perhaps, I should say something else. "But it's dumb to fight about who's in charge. They should be equal. That's how it is at Julie's and Mari's houses and their parents get along great."

Dawn nods. "I agree. I mean, that they should be equal," she says. "Who's in charge at Emily's house?"

"Emily."

Dawn cocks her eyebrow once more.

She's really out of the loop.

Gran appears across the street, trailing behind Penelope on her leash. I don't think Gran even sees us until she's halfway up the front walk and then her expression switches from dreamy and distant to surprised and triumphant. I scowl slightly at her. She thinks she's won. She hasn't.

"Hello, Grace," Gran greets me, nudging Penelope up the front steps. "Hello, Dawn."

"Hello, Mrs. McCracken," Dawn replies and pushes away from the railing.

"Hi, Gran," I say, breezily, like I am not upset to be caught willingly conversing with Dawn Schafer. "Hey, Dawn, why don't you show Gran your postcard?" I suggest.

Dawn's eyes narrow for a fleeting second, then she reaches into her pocket and removes the postcard. "My dad and stepmom sent this," she explains to Gran. "They were in Wales, but were heading up to Scotland." Dawn says that like she knew Swansea was in Wales all along.

"Oh! How dreadful!" Gran cries, holding the postcard out in front of her. "They should have stayed in Wales!"

"You have a real problem with Scotland," Dawn observes.

Gran hands the postcard back. "Nothing good has ever come out of Scotland."

"Isn't that your motherland or something though?"

"No. I'm from Rhode Island," Gran replies. She removes her keys from her pocket and shushes Penelope, who's yipping like a maniac. As usual. "Would you girls like to finish your chat?" Gran asks.

"No. We're done," I say and rise from the chair. I brush off the back of my pants.

"You know," Dawn says to Gran, shrugging off her sweatshirt. Apparently, she's just realized it's June. "Your granddaughter isn't completely terrible all the time."

"Thanks," I say, tightly.

Gran chuckles and slides her key into the lock on the front door.

"Well, it's the truth," Dawn tells me, tying her sweatshirt around her waist. "You appreciate the truth, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Well, then, you're not completely terrible all the time," Dawn says and turns away and hops down the front steps. "Goodbye, Mrs. McCracken," she calls back. "Bye, Grace."

"Goodbye, Dawn," Gran replies, pushing the front door open.

I watch Dawn meander back across the street, swinging her arms, and tossing her hair back. Maybe she isn't _completely_ terrible either. Not that I would ever, ever admit that.


	6. Chapter 6

"See?" Gran says, when we're inside the house and she closes the front door. "I told Rita that you aren't too snobby to be friends with Dawn."

My jaw drops. "Mrs. Porter called me a snob?" I demand. What is with Mrs. Porter? She badmouths Gran to Dawn, she badmouths me to Gran. She doesn't even _know_ me.

"Not in so many words," Gran replies. "Hush, Penelope," she scolds as Penelope jumps up and down, yipping at Gran's knees. "I don't know why Corinne thought I needed a dog," she says and crouches down to unhook Penelope's leash.

"I'm not a snob," I tell Gran, tightly.

"I know," Gran says and straightens up, giving Penelope a light kick in the rear. Penelope scampers out of the room.

"So, is that why you wanted me to become friends with Dawn?" I ask. "To prove to Mrs. Porter that I'm not a snob?"

"What?" Gran replies, appearing surprised. "No. Rita and I are friends. I thought you and Dawn could be friends, too. And see, you get along when you make an effort."

"I was simply tolerating her."

"Well, that's a start, I guess," Gran says, absently. "I'm surprised to see you, Grace. You're spoiling me with all these visits."

I watch her for a moment, thinking. "Oh...am I coming too often?" I ask.

"No. I'm just not used to visitors. Were you wanting to work on your summer reading? I'm uncertain how long I can help today. I've had such a splitting headache all day long," Gran says and presses the heel of her hand to her forehead.

"Did you take something?"

"Yes."

"And it didn't help? Maybe you should take something else."

"No. I'll be fine. It'll pass. Come, let's go to the library," Gran says and begins walking away. She looks over her shoulder. "Did you want something to drink, Grace?"

"No thanks," I answer and follow behind her.

Gran and I sit down on the couch in the library with Gran's copy of _The Tenant of Wildfell Hall_ and the notepad I've been using for notes. I turn to page one hundred one with a heavy, exaggerated sigh and begin reading about Helen and all those other people whose names I can't keep straight. Mostly, I read to myself, asking Gran for explanations and clarification when needed. She sits very patiently, rubbing her forehead every so often. A few times, I read long passages aloud. I'm in the middle of one when Gran cuts me off.

"Can we stop for awhile?" she asks. She's massaging her temples. "I need a break and some fresh air."

"Sure," I say, relieved, closing the book.

Gran rises from the couch and heads for the door, very briskly, much quicker than usual. Usually, she is slow and graceful, never in a hurry. She acts like the house is suffocating her or running her out on its own. She slides open the door to the patio and steps through with me behind her. She crosses to the garden, where she spends so much of her time, buried in the earth, rooted, like her flowers. She takes a seat on a white wooden bench beneath an arbor, covered in climbing, blooming morning glories of violet and magenta and periwinkle streaked with white. Gran inhales deeply through her nose and pushes back her carrot-colored hair with her hands.

"Are you all right?" I ask her, sitting down gingerly beside her.

"Yes. It'll pass," Gran assures me and rests her hands in the lap of her tan slacks. "I didn't sleep well last night. It always catches up to me."

"Maybe you should lie down then," I suggest.

"No, no," Gran argues, lightly. "I'd rather be out here. Do you want to help me transplant some petunias? They're getting overcrowded."

"I thought you had a headache."

"Yes, but this will help."

I don't see how it could.

"Um...I don't really like gardening, Gran," I tell her.

"Yes. I know. Well, you won't mind if I do some, right?" Gran asks, rising off the bench.

"No. I don't mind," I reply.

The petunia bed isn't very far from the arbor. Gran pulls over her gardening supplies and kneels down beside the petunias, sinking a spade into the dirt. I don't quite understand what brought this change on so suddenly. Ten minutes ago, she could barely open her eyes while holding her head. Now, she appears perfectly content, that spacey, far off expression creeping in around her eyes.

"You gardened this morning?" I ask, knowing it's best to keep the conversation flowing before she's completely lost.

"Yes. I was out here at six," Gran replies, scooping handfuls of potting soil into a terra cotta pot. "By ten, it was becoming too hot though and I had to go back inside. I miss the spring. Those are the best gardening days."

How does anyone crawl around in the dirt for four hours? It's totally lost on me. I turn my body sideways, so I may partially stretch my legs out on the bench. They're much too long. I rest back against the white braided wood and watch Gran. She's completely focused on the petunias in their vibrant blanket of pink and red hues tipped in creamy white.

"You know how you're helping me with my summer reading?" I say after awhile.

Gran doesn't hear me.

I repeat myself.

"Yes?" Gran finally answers without glancing up.

"Did you ever help my mother with her homework?"

Gran squints up at me for a moment, then looks back down, lifting a raspberry-red flower out of the soil and placing it gently in the pot. "I suppose I did," Gran tells me. "When she was a little girl. I don't recall exactly. It was a long time ago." She presses the flower into the pot with her fingers, very softly, and packs potting soil around it. "Fay never needed much help with anything. She was very self-sufficient. Very ambitious."

"You never talk about her much," I comment. "About when she was a little girl."

"It was a long time ago. What would I say?"

I shrug, even though she's not looking at me. "What did you used to do together?"

"Mmm...sometimes we played tennis. Fay wasn't interested in books or gardening. She liked math. Math and science. And a lot of other interests that I never understood. I never understood much about her, actually. Like her sense of humor. It still baffles me."

"Don't you have any really good memories of her?"

"I'll have to think about it," Gran answers.

"Oh..." I say, slowly, dragging it out, letting it fade in the air. I hope that if asked my mother could tell a nice memory about me. I hope she could tell several. "Do you remember what she was like in high school at least? When she was my age? People say I'm like her. Is that true?"

"You look like her, but you're a lot more pleasant to be around," Gran replies, pushing her spade into the earth again. "Fay was moody. She was very popular, I guess, although I'm not sure why. She wasn't very agreeable most of the time."

"Oh, did you fight a lot then?"

"Fight? No. I don't remember us ever fighting. Fay wasn't home much. She was always at tennis practice and swim practice and dance committee and French Club. Miss Social Butterfly, always the center of attention. I remember when Russ Black broke up with her. It was like the world stopped spinning. She cried for two weeks. Such theatrics over a silly boy."

I raise my eyebrows. Russ Black is Pete Black's father. I knew he dated Mom when they went to Stoneybrook High, but I wasn't aware that he _dumped_ her. In eighth grade, Pete and I went to some movies and dances together. Our parents thought it was really funny. Mom never mentioned Mr. Black breaking her heart. I can't imagine her heartbroken. I've never seen her cry.

"I didn't know Mr. Black dumped her," I tell Gran.

"Oh, no? He did. For some younger girl. Then she started dating that dim-witted Ted Kilbourne. I don't know what she was thinking. She didn't listen to me, of course. She never did. I don't know what happened between them, but she broke up with him before graduation. It certainly took her long enough. And then she went off to Smith and became a man-hater. We all thought she'd decided to become a lesbian until she brought your father home. Just showed up out of the blue with him one day. 'This is Hal, my boyfriend. We've been dating for eight months.' I told you, I never understood her."

I really didn't know any of that. No one ever told me. "Is Ted Kilbourne the one whose face she burned out of all her Homecoming and Prom pictures with a cigarette?" I ask.

"That would be him. I'm not sure why she felt the need to do that. More theatrics, I suppose."

"Why didn't you just ask her?"

"If she wanted me to know, she would have told me," Gran answers.

"Maybe she wanted you to ask," I suggest. If I defaced all my school pictures, I would want my mother to be curious about it.

Gran glances up and knits her eyebrows together, momentarily, then returns to her petunias. "I'm not a mind reader," she says, more to the flower pot than to me. "Fay has never been shy about telling anyone exactly what's on her mind. Although, often, I have wished she'd just keep her thoughts and opinions to herself."

I don't say anything for awhile. I cross my legs and drum my fingers on my knee. This conversation isn't turning out how I wanted. But then, conversations mixing Mom and Gran never do. I switch gears. "Did you have many boyfriends, Gran?" I ask.

"Me?" Gran replies with a chuckle. "No. I only ever dated Ian," she says. Ian was my grandfather, the one no one ever speaks of. He is a mystery like Aunt Margolo, shrouded in secrecy, wrapped in shoved aside memories. I know he was a criminal lawyer. I know he died of a heart attack. Anything before and between has never been told to me. "I never really knew any other boys or men. I was at Miss Kingston's from age five to eighteen. I rarely left and the only males there were the gardner and latin teacher. Hardly suitable dating material. Then I married Ian when I was barely twenty-one years old."

"How did you meet him?"

"I never told you this?" Gran asks. She doesn't actually sound surprised that she hasn't. "My father and Ian's father were from the same village in Scotland and they were best friends their entire lives. They came to America together when they were only sixteen. Eventually, they married and started families, of course. I suspect they always intended for me to marry Ian."

"It was lucky you actually fell in love with him then," I say.

Gran keeps her head down and doesn't speak right away. "Yes," she finally says. "I suppose it was a smart match."

I catch something in her voice that I can't quite decipher. It's strange.

I consider carefully what to say next. Gran doesn't make things easy. She doesn't help me lead the conversation. She just allows it to hang, leaden and flat. "What was he like?" I ask. I've always wondered. I'm uncertain why I've never asked. Maybe because it seemed to be against some unwritten family rule. Don't speak of the dead. Not in any way.

Gran's quiet and I almost repeat the question, thinking she's spaced out on me again, wandered somewhere else in her mind where I am shut out. But she speaks. "He was thirteen years older than me," Gran says, as if that's any kind of answer, good or otherwise. "We didn't have a lot in common. He liked tennis. He had an excellent backhand. He liked my garden. Or rather, he liked showing it off at parties. It was a nice excuse, I suppose. I never enjoyed parties much. Too much talking, too much noise, and not enough space and air." Gran sits back and wipes her brow with the back of her hand. She streaks black potting soil across it. "I think that's enough for today, Grace," she announces and rises slowly to her feet. She brushes off her pants, then turns and walks away.

* * *

It's seven o' clock when my parents come home and I'm sitting in the kitchen eating macaroni and cheese for dinner. Mom comes through the garage door first, laughing over something my father's said, and Dad's right behind her on her heels. He's laughing, too, at the joke shared between them. I stir my macaroni and take another bite.

"Hello, Grace," Mom greets me, dropping her laptop case on one of the chairs. She sets her briefcase on the table and walks over to the pot on the stove and wrinkles her nose. Then she opens the freezer and begins digging through the frozen dinners.

"Hi, Grace," Dad says, crossing the kitchen past me, heading for the living room.

"Hello," I reply.

"Hal, get me a drink while you're out there!" Mom calls to Dad from inside the freezer. She emerges a few seconds later with a box of cheese ravioli. "How was your day?" she asks me, tearing open the box. "Did you spend it sitting in that stuffy library reading?"

"No. We didn't read very long. Gran had a headache."

"She always has a headache," Mom replies and stabs the plastic cover of the ravioli with a knife. I have a sneaking suspicion she's pretending it's Gran's face. Mom tosses the ravioli into the microwave and presses the three minute button. "I have something for you," she tells me, coming back over to the table. She snaps open her briefcase. She removes a book.

"A book?" I say with a twinge of disappointment.

Mom hands it across the table to me. "I had Shelley...or Camille...or whatever that new girl's name is - it doesn't matter. I'll fire her soon - I had her scour the bookstores of Manhattan for this. She can't do anything else. She might as well run my errands. It's a book on the works of the Bronte sisters. I suspect there's about three pages on Anne. Oh, well. Maybe it will help."

I flip open the front cover and read the dust jacket. "Thanks, Mom," I say and it's sincere, even if she did bring me a _book_. I am astounded that our three a.m. conversation settled and lingered in her mind for so long.

"You're welcome, Grace," Mom says. "Finally, Hal!" she cries when Dad comes back into the kitchen carrying two tumblers. His gin and tonic and Mom's rum. "Did you have to go to the A&P first?"

"No. You're just impatient," Dad answers, handing over her drink.

"No. I think you're just slow," Mom says, opening the door to the freezer and removing several cubes of ice from the ice machine. She drops them into her glass, splattering some of the dark amber liquid over the side of the glass.

"You may be right, my dear," Dad replies, easily. He comes to stand near me at the table, looking over my shoulder as I flip through my new book. "Fay already gave you your book, I see. I have something for you, too," he tells me and sets his drink down beside my can of pineapple soda. He leaves the kitchen for a minutes, then comes back with a cerulean blue bag scattered with teal-colored swirls. He hands it to me. "This is from one of the gift bags we're giving out at that event next week. Alla bought too many."

I reach into the bag and pull out a pair of sunglasses. Chanel. The frames are big and white, oval-shaped with black lenses. I slide them on.

Mom sits down across from me with her rum and her ravioli. "You look like an oversized grasshopper," she informs me. "Hal, who picked those out? Alla? She's a moron. I've been telling you that for years."

Dad shrugs.

I push back my chair and walk over to the microwave and check my reflection in its dark window. "I like them," I say. "And Mom, they're _Chanel_."

"So?" Mom says, stirring her ravioli. "That doesn't make them attractive. I'm telling you this as a concerned parent and a fashion icon."

"You're not a fashion icon, Mom. You're an accountant."

"I'm a fashion icon of the accounting world."

"That isn't necessarily something to brag about, my dear," Dad says, crossing to the refrigerator and opening the freezer.

"Well, I like them, Dad. Thank you. You should steal more high priced items from work for me." I tell him. "Um...I have something for both of you, too," I say, sliding off the sunglasses. I fold them together and set them on top of the book. Then I go across the kitchen to the counter where we keep the mail. "My report card came today."

Mom extends her hand. I reach out the envelope to her and she takes it and opens it. Dad comes to stand behind her, gazing down over her shoulder.

I am not a _bad_ student. I am also not a psychotic, obsessive genius like Emily Bernstein or a diligent worker like Stacey and Mary Anne, or even a lazy student who never studies and still passes with A's like Julie. My parents say I don't try hard enough. They're probably right. My parents say it's from all the years of Cokie's influence because half the time, Cokie and I never bothered with homework. Perhaps, more than half the time. Mom and Dad were so pleased when after The Incident, I began hanging around _smart_ girls. Sometimes, it seems as if they consider The Incident almost a good thing, a positive turning point in my life.

"You got an A in P.E., of course," Mom says.

"And B-pluses in physics and math analysis," I point out. "And in math analysis, that's technically an A since it's the advanced class," I add. I have to take one advanced class a year. My parents say it'll make me concentrate harder if the work is harder. In the fall, I'm taking advanced calculus. Math is the least horrible of subjects.

"Good job, Grace," Dad tells me. The rest of the grades are regular B's. I have no idea how I pulled that off in American Literature. "That's a fine report card."

"Yes, it is," Mom says and smiles up at me. She extends it back to me.

"You have to sign it."

"I have to _sign_ it? What are you - nine?"

I shrug.

"Get me a pen," Mom says and when I do, signs the back of the report card quickly in her hurried signature.

I sit back down in my chair and slip the report card inside my book. I'll mail it back to the school tomorrow. Dad joins us at the table with his recently heated garlic parmesan chicken. Sometimes when I see frozen dinners, I just want to puke. I finish my macaroni and cheese, even though it's cooled and become slightly congealed. It isn't so bad. Macaroni and cheese is the one food I can make. Not counting grilled cheese sandwiches, which don't count at all. Anyone could make one of those. Well, likely not my mother since she couldn't even figure out how to work the electric can opener that one time. The stove would probably send her into a tizzy.

"So..." Mom says, slowly, nonchalantly. "Why did your grandmother have a headache?"

I shrug. "I don't know. She said she didn't sleep well last night."

Mom snorts.

"We talked about you. I asked her about when you were a girl."

Mom doesn't say anything for a long while. She pushes the leftover sauce around in the plastic tray. "What did she say?" Mom finally asks.

I drain the rest of my soda from the can. When I set it down again, I say, "She said you were smart and ambitious." It seems like the safest thing to say.

Mom doesn't take it as a compliment. She scowls down at the remnants of her dinner.

I wish it wasn't like this.

"Gran said you used to play tennis together."

"Sometimes," Mom says.

"I never met a family so obsessed with tennis," Dad comments.

"All that pent up rage and frustration," Mom replies. It comes out very simply, no emotion, only fact.

And the silence settles.

"Well..." I say, playing with the tab on my empty soda can. "You're a great tennis player," I tell Mom when it's the only thing to say. "Were you all that great? I know Gran's good. Gran said your father had an excellent backhand."

"I suppose she's the one who would know," Mom replies and leans over to pick a grain of rice from Dad's mustache. She pushes it into his mouth with her thumb and then stands. "I need another drink," she announces and leaves the kitchen.

Dad doesn't say anything. He just smiles, vaguely, and continues eating. Then he finishes his gin and tonic and goes to pour another.


	7. Chapter 7

Dawn Schafer must be stalking me. 

Not that I exactly blame her. 

I'm coming out of Pierre's Dry Cleaners on Tuesday afternoon and spy Dawn four stores down, chaining her bicycle to the bike rack between the Bernstein's pharmacy and Donut Delite. I watch her for a moment, though she doesn't see me, as her head is bent low while she fusses with her bike lock. I step off the curb and walk around to the trunk of my Corvette, lifting it and laying my parents' plastic wrapped clothes inside. When I shut the trunk, Dawn has spotted me. She straightens and tosses her long blonde hair back over her shoulder. She doesn't smile or wave. But she starts toward me. 

"Those are some interesting sunglasses you've got on," Dawn says, loudly, as she approaches. 

"They're Chanel," I inform her, though it's doubtful she knows anything of designer brands. 

She surprises me. 

"How much did you pay for them?" Dawn wants to know. 

"Nothing. My dad got them from work." 

"Your dad works at Chanel?" 

"No. He works at Fiona Fee. So does my mother." 

Dawn bursts out laughing. 

"What's so funny?" I demand, scowling at her. 

"Your parents sell underwear?" she exclaims, still laughing. "Your parents sell overpriced underwear? I thought they were stockbrokers or bankers or something!" 

"They do not sell underwear," I reply, testily. "It's not like they're working the register at the Washington Mall! They work at the corporate office in New York. My mother is the Chief Financial Officer now. And my dad's the head of his department. Public relations or event planning or something. So, they don't _sell_ anything. They're very important." 

Dawn just laughs. 

"There's nothing funny about it. And Fiona Fee isn't just underwear. It's all kinds of nightwear, plus there's a complete skin care line." 

"Could you get me some free lace thongs?" Dawn asks. 

"I could. But I won't." 

"Oh, well," Dawn says and tosses her hair back again. She's dressed in her usual poorly considered outfit - jean shorts with a multicolored braided belt and an orange Universal Studios t-shirt. She just doesn't make any effort at all. "So, what are you doing?" she asks me. 

"Picking up the dry cleaning," I reply, shortly, still miffed that she would laugh at my parents' jobs. What do her parents do? Something boring, I'm sure. 

"Fun. I was just at the library, where I helped Erica Blumberg shelve children's books for an hour. She works there, you know. But then she had to go mend books or something, so I had to leave. Now I'm going to the Rosebud Cafe for lunch." 

"By yourself? What an exciting life you lead." 

"Almost as exciting as making a dry cleaning run." 

"Almost," I agree. 

"Do you want to come to the Rosebud with me?" Dawn asks. 

I hide my surprise quite skillfully. "Not really," I answer. 

"Oh, well..." Dawn says and sighs. "If you're that afraid of what Mary Anne thinks..." 

"I'm not afraid of Mary Anne," I scoff. "Although, I'm not certain her claims of your horridness are completely unfounded, Mary Anne doesn't make my decisions for me. I can dislike you quite easily of my own volition, thank you very much." 

Dawn cocks an eyebrow. "So...you are coming?" she asks. 

Did I say that? I don't think so. 

I stare at her a moment from behind my dark lenses. "Fine," I finally say and walk past her toward the Rosebud. "If you're that desperate." 

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Grace," Dawn says, casually, falling into step beside me. "Asking to hang out with you hardly reeks of desperation." 

I roll my eyes and quicken my pace slightly, so that Dawn must match my stride. I pull into the lead and push through the front door of the Rosebud Cafe. My friends and I never come here. We like Argo's and Renwick's. The Rosebud is usually too crowded, especially with old people and pesky middle schoolers, but hardly anyone in between. I guess Dawn isn't aware of that. If she's hoping to reconnect with kids she knew at SMS - on the off chance that any of them actually remember her - the Rosebud is not the place to do it. I don't share that information. Instead, I head toward the back and slide into a free booth and open a menu without waiting for Dawn to sit down. 

"Hey, the menu's exactly the same!" Dawn cries when she's opened hers. She looks quite pleased. 

"I'm having the patty melt," I announce, even though the egg salad sandwich is much more tempting. Except it doesn't have red meat in it. 

"I'm having the egg salad sandwich," Dawn says and closes her menu. 

Somehow, in some way, she did that on purpose. 

Our waiter comes over and when I glance up, I am less than thrilled to discover it's Logan Bruno. He is not one of my favorite people. I had a crush on him, briefly, in the eighth grade. I think the whole of his appeal rested on his Southern drawl. It certainly wasn't due to an engaging personality. Logan is rather dull. He's also a control freak. All his ex-girlfriends say so. 

"Hi, Grace," he greets me and I grunt in reply. He doesn't notice. He's focused on Dawn. "Hey, Dawn!" he cries. "Back in Stoneybrook for the summer? Right on!" 

Dawn raises her eyes. "Hey, Logan," she says, then opens her menu again. "I want the egg salad sandwich, but instead of fries can I get the fruit platter?" 

"Sure thing," Logan says, flipping open his notepad. "Anything for you." He winks. 

I roll my eyes and try not to gag. 

"Thanks," Dawn says to Logan. "And I'd like a lemonade." She closes her menu and hands it to him with a small smile. 

Logan flashes a huge grin back at her. 

"And I would like the patty melt," I tell him, loudly, "with an orange soda. Thanks." I thrust the menu in front of his face. 

Logan totally ignores me. He doesn't even write down my order. Instead, he continues smiling at Dawn, leaning slightly against our table. "So, when did you get back?" he asks her. 

"A little over a week ago," Dawn answers. 

"Enjoying yourself?" 

Dawn shrugs. 

"Ahh...too bad," Logan says. His accent has become much more pronounced, weighing down his words. "You should keep better company than Grace Blume," he suggests. 

"Go put our order in," I snap at him. 

"Sure thing," Logan replies, but not to me. He's still smiling at Dawn. "I'll bring that out nice and hot for you, Dawn. And I'll get your lemonade." Logan flashes a final smile and then turns and walks away, ducking into the kitchen. 

"That was disgusting," I tell Dawn. 

"What?" 

"'I'll bring that out nice and hot for you, Dawn'," I mimic and then gag. "He was flirting with you in an absolutely excruciating way." 

Dawn laughs. "I don't think so," she argues, lightly. "That's just Logan. He's kind of dorky." 

"He's kind of lame." 

"Shh...he's coming back," Dawn whispers. 

"Here you are, ladies," Logan says, breezily, setting our drinks on the table. 

I stare at mine. "That isn't an orange soda," I inform him with irritation. 

And Logan's much too busy talking to Dawn to even hear me. 

His taste in girls is really quite appalling. 

"And three hours later, we finally get our food," I say, sarcastically, when Logan brings our lunches after tearing himself away from our table long enough to return to the kitchen. He still doesn't bring me the correct soda. He so isn't getting a tip. 

"Well, it's refreshing to have someone actually be friendly toward me," Dawn says, spearing a strawberry with her fork. "Other than my grandparents and Jeff. Or Claudia and Erica." 

"Claudia and Erica are nice to everyone," I say, squeezing ketchup over my fries. "That's just Claudia and Erica." 

"And I'm not special, right? I remember," Dawn replies and bites into the strawberry. "Claudia, Erica, and I went to the movies last night. We saw that new Corrie Lalique movie. _Second Star._ It was really good. Claudia isn't at all concerned with what Mary Anne thinks of me." 

"Neither am I. I've just never liked you." 

"You know, Grace Blume, you have these moments where you aren't terrible at all and then...you open your mouth again," Dawn says and bites into her egg salad sandwich. She chews and swallows and washes it down with her lemonade. "Did you know your grandmother's an insomniac?" she asks. 

"No," I reply and bite into my own sandwich. 

"Well, she is. My room at Granny and Pop-Pop's faces her house and every night I wake up at two a.m. to use the bathroom. It's like clockwork. I can't help it. My bed is right underneath the window and I keep the blinds partially open so I get the breeze. So, every night, I get up at two a.m. and when I look out the window, I see your grandmother's bedroom light on. I mean, I assume it's her bedroom. Last night, a light in the attic was on. What was she doing in the attic at two in the morning?" 

I shrug and dip a french fry into the ketchup. "I don't know. Why don't you ask her?" 

"Well, what's in the attic?" 

I shrug again. I've never been in Gran's attic. Why would I go up there? "I don't know. Attic stuff," I answer. 

"I think it's kind of strange." 

"I think you should mind your own business. Why are you still living with your grandparents anyway? I thought you were going home?" 

"Oh..." Dawn says and spears another strawberry. "I don't think that's going to work out. I went over for dinner last night and Richard and Jeff got into it. Then Mom got in the middle and pulled me along with her. Richard can be an uptight jerk, but he really didn't deserve that - three against one and all. He's really upset about Mary Anne refusing to come home. He blames Mom and I'm sure he blames me too. He's been pretty nice about not pointing it out though." Dawn pops the strawberry in her mouth. 

"Whatever did you do to make Mary Anne so angry?" I ask. It is the obvious question. Mary Anne can be a drama queen, but she is - usually - not irrational. And she usually doesn't carry on this long. 

"I didn't do anything," Dawn insists. "Well, I laughed at her. Well, not so much at _her_ but at something she thought and did. It was dumb. I shouldn't have laughed. But then, that's really not the problem. It's just an excuse. What Mary Anne's mad about started before I came back and it's all wrapped up in her and Mom. They're just dragging me into the middle, pulling me along for the ride, and now I am removing myself." 

"What did Mary Anne do?" I ask. 

"I can't tell you." 

My eyebrows shoot up. She can't tell me? After all she's said, this she can't tell me? I watch her a moment, twirling a french fry in the ketchup, and thinking. What could Mary Anne possibly have done? 

"My mother smothers me," Dawn announces, suddenly. She blushes like, out of everything she's said, this is the worst. "Do you know what that's like?" she asks. 

I don't answer right away. I continue twirling the french fry in the ketchup. "No," I finally say. "I don't know what that's like. My mother gives me all the space I need." 

"Lucky for you. Mine wants too much of me. She wants to be all these things. She wants just me and not Mary Anne. And there is the problem," Dawn says and takes a huge bite of her sandwich. She stares out the window while she chews. 

I am lucky. 

I bite into my patty melt, chew chew chew, wash it down with diet cola, and remind myself of that again. 

After lunch, Dawn rides her bike off in one direction on Essex and I drive off in the other. When I stop at the light at where Essex crosses Main and check the rearview mirror, Dawn has already disappeared from sight, disappeared to wherever she is headed next. Someplace lonely, I suspect. I don't want to be lonely, so I drive to Rosedale Road, to Julie's house. Julie and I have played phone tag the last couple of days. I drop by on the chance that she is actually around when I look for her. 

I have to park at the curb because Paul is in the driveway shooting baskets by himself. Paul's on the varsity basketball team and I will - grudgingly - admit that he is a fantastic player. Unfortunately, Paul is perfectly aware of this, too. 

"Hello, darling!" Paul calls out as I cross the front lawn. 

As usual, I ignore him. 

Julie answers the door when I ring the bell. I'm pleased to see that she's wearing the t-shirt and bracelet I bought her in Fiji. She didn't even know I was coming over. 

"Hey!" she greets me, brightly, and holds open the front door. "Good timing. I just got home." 

"Where have you been?" I ask, stepping into the foyer. 

Julie shuts the door behind me. "I went to the community center to play volleyball. Then I visited my dad at the post office and my mom at the Strathmoore. And then I checked on the Bernsteins' pharmacy to make sure Mr. Malkowski hadn't keeled over dead or burned it down or something like that. I don't think the Bernsteins would care for that," Julie says and leads me to the back of her house, to the family room, where she throws herself on the tweed couch. "We were talking about you at the community center - me, Heather, Kathleen, all the girls from the team that were there. Everyone's still mourning the fact that you refuse to join the team. You're so damn tall, Grace. And coordinated. It's a travesty that you waste all that on _tennis_." Julie makes a disgusted face. 

I wrinkle my nose at her and rock back slightly in the recliner. Julie just says that because Julie is a horrid tennis player. I've seen her play and it's just sad. "I don't care for volleyball," I say, simply. 

"But you're good! Come on, we dominated the volleyball unit in P.E. this year! Undefeated champions. We carried our team." 

"I know," I agree, but don't point out that we never would have remained undefeated had Emily not spent the entire volleyball unit sitting on the bleachers, faking asthma and twisted knees. "Did you get your report card?" I ask Julie. 

"Yeah. It came yesterday." 

"Did you get straight A's?" 

"No!" Julie cries and makes a weird face. Julie dislikes discussing grades. Julie's smart. She just acts like an idiot. She doesn't want people to realize. "I got an A-minus in physics and a B-plus in math analysis." 

"Those are advanced classes," I tell her. "You practically got straight A's." 

Julie shrugs. "It doesn't matter. What did you get in physics and math analysis?" she asks me. Julie, Emily, and I were in the same classes. 

"B-pluses." 

"Good job, Miss Blume. I'm proud of you." 

"Thanks," I reply and tug down on my jean skirt, which has started to bunch. "You know, if Emily Bernstein gets an A in P.E. again this semester, I'm filing a complaint." 

"Oh, me too!" Julie exclaims and laughs. "She's the worst phys ed student in the history of Stoneybrook High, I think. She should get some sort of plaque for it. Remember when she tried to step over the hurdles during the track unit?" 

"And somehow got stuck? Yeah. That was pathetic. Or when she jumped under the bar during the high jump? On purpose? And I swear, she hid in the bathroom for the entire lacrosse unit. I don't care what she claims. She was _not_ playing on Katie Shea's team. I know Emily's petite, but she's not invisible. She should fail the class for complete lack of effort." 

Julie laughs. "Mr. Bernstein would be furious! Quietly furious, but furious nonetheless. I think Mrs. Bernstein would be torn. On one hand, she thinks physical education should be outlawed. On the other hand, Emily receiving anything less than an A might literally kill her." 

"Emily's parents need to get a grip." 

Julie shrugs, but doesn't comment. "The Bernsteins will be home on Thursday," she tells me. "Emily called last night." 

"How many times have you talked to Emily since she's been gone?" 

"Four." 

"Four! Julie, she's been gone for _a week_." 

"She has a lot to tell me," Julie replies, defensively. "She's excited and wants to tell me about the schools. It's a big decision deciding where we're going next year." 

I'm pretty sure she means where _Emily_ decides they go next year, but I don't point that out. Instead, I say, "It's a good thing you're going away together. If you can't last a week, I don't see how you could survive an entire semester apart. However, Julie, I hope you realize what living with Emily Bernstein in a five-by-five room will be like. That is, _not fun._" 

Julie just shrugs. 

"You'll be at each other's throats in a month." 

Julie looks surprised. "No, we won't," she protests. "Emily's crazy, but that's Emily. I'm used to her quirks. They don't bother me. Besides, we never fight. Oh, well, except for that one time." 

Technically, I think that "one time" is actually called "seventh grade" but I don't point that out either. 

"You know her parents will visit every weekend," I say. 

"That's fine. I like her parents." 

And I will never understand why. 

"Do you want some lemonade?" Julie asks me, sitting up on the couch. She swings her legs onto the carpet. 

"Yeah, sure." 

Julie hops off the couch and vanishes beneath the archway to the living room. A few seconds later, I hear the refrigerator open and then a cabinet open and bang closed. Julie's very noisy. She causes a commotion wherever she goes. I don't think she even realizes. She's just Julie. 

Of everyone in our group, Julie and I have been friends the longest. Maybe friends is the wrong term. We've had...an understanding...the longest. Pretty much since the day she gave Cokie and I matching black eyes in fourth grade. Julie moved to Stoneybrook from Stamford the summer before second grade. Cokie and I didn't meet her until the first day of school when we walked into Mr. Eccles' classroom. Julie was a bit of a shock to us. Until then, I'd always been the tallest kid in our grade, taller even than the boys. Then Julie appeared and she was just as tall as me. We knew Julie was strange from the beginning. Julie didn't care about me and Cokie or about anything we had to say. We weren't used to that. In kindergarten and first grade, Cokie and I had dedicated our lives to terrorizing Emily, who aside from Mary Anne and Kristy Thomas, was the smallest kid in our grade, and didn't fight back. Julie changed that and in fourth grade, stopped it altogether with two powerful right hooks. My mother was livid. Julie's mother didn't care. 

And since then, Julie and I have been on, more or less, friendly terms. 

"Here you are," Julie announces, returning to the family room and handing me a clear plastic glass with yellow daisies around the center. "What do you want to do? Do you want to watch a movie?" 

"Sure. That's fine," I reply and sip my lemonade as I rise from the recliner. I sit down, slowly, beside Julie on the carpet by the cabinet where the Sterns keep their videos. Indian-style is awkward and near impossible in my tight jean skirt, so I reposition so that I'm kneeling on my knees. "Oh, hey, Julie," I say, watching her pull out videos from the cabinet. They're all recorded from the t.v. and labeled in various handwritings, some nearly illegible, some neat and precise. The latter would be Julie's. "Does someone named Kara live on this street?" 

Julie groans. "Yes. Why?" 

"I met her the other day," I say, casually. I don't think I should say any more. 

"Unfortunate for you," Julie replies. "She lives next door to Emily in the green house with the black shutters. She's a vicious bitch. Just nasty. So are her parents. They don't like the Bernsteins. They don't like us either. I guess it's because the Bernsteins are Jewish, which is such a dumb reason. I'm stunned the Ferguison's didn't move out the moment Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein moved in." Julie slides a video back into the cabinet and hesitates. "If I tell you what Kara did once, will you promise not to tell anyone?" she asks. 

"I promise." 

"Oh, well, a couple years ago, Kara left a copy on _Mein Kampf_ on the Bernstein's doorstep. _Mein Kampf_ is this book - " 

"I know what it is," I interrupt her. "It's Adolf Hitler's autobiography. We read excerpts in World History." 

"Oh. That's right," Julie says. "Kara left a copy on their doorstep. We know it was her because Rachel was in our front yard, weeding the floor beds and saw her. She set it on the doormat and then ran away." 

"That's disgusting," I say. "And really cruel. What did the Bernsteins do?" 

"Nothing. Well, not nothing. The next time Mr. Bernstein saw Kara, he said, 'thank you for the book. It was very enlightening.'" 

"Oh, he did not," I scoff with a laugh. "Mr. Bernstein said that? Out loud? To her face?" Half the time, Mr. Bernstein won't even look me in the eye when he speaks to me. The other half of the time, he won't speak to me at all. 

"Yes. He claims he really said it. And a few days later, Kara left her bicycle on her front lawn, so I threw it in the street and Rachel backed over it with our car." 

I smile. Oh, the vigilante justice of the Stern family. "I didn't know anyone was like that in Stoneybrook," I remark. 

"Some people are just mean. Like the Ferguisons. Most people aren't that way. I don't think anyone else in Stoneybrook cares that the Bernsteins are Jewish. If they do, they keep it to themselves," Julie says. "But you really can't tell anyone. It's a secret because Mrs. Bernstein doesn't know. Mr. Bernstein didn't want to upset her. She's really sensitive about stuff like that." 

"Oh, well, I'll try to remember to not mention it during our next weekly phone chat." 

Julie laughs. "Please try your hardest," she says and holds up a video. "Do you want to watch this?" she asks. "It's that Corrie Lalique movie - _The Desmond Falls_. I taped it last week." 

"That's fine. I like that movie," I answer and push myself to my feet, stumbling slightly as I straighten, tripping in my wedge sandals. 

"I think it's her best movie. Have you seen her new one?" 

I shake my head. 

"We should go then," Julie says, turning on the television and the VCR. She slides the tape in. "Oh, I almost forgot. What are you doing tomorrow afternoon? We're having a barbecue. You have to come." 

I sit back down in the recliner and cross my ankles. "I don't have any plans. Are Stacey and Mary Anne coming?" 

Julie turns and makes a face. "No. They're going to some stupid play in Stamford with Mary Anne's grandma. But Erica and Claudia are coming. I saw Erica when I went to the library to return my books this morning and I invited her. It's probably best that Mary Anne won't be here because Paul invited Pete and Ross. I must warn you, Pete will spend the entire barbecue sobbing about Mary Anne. It's pathetic." 

"Can I bring someone?" I ask. 

"Sure, you can bring Mari," Julie answers. "You can bring anyone you want. My parents won't care." 

"Oh...thanks," I reply. 

Julie grins and presses the play button and then jumps back onto the couch. 

In the evening, long after I've left Julie's house, I'm in my bedroom by myself. Downstairs, my parents are in the office. I hear their voices mixed in with the spinning wheels of Mom's stationary bike and the fast notes escaping from the stereo. My dad likes big band music. My mother tolerates it. Their laughter rises up the stairs, drifting like a cloud, thinning as it spreads. I sit down at my desk and remove a binder from the bottom drawer. I flip it open. The first section is all lists. I keep a lot of lists. Things I like about myself, things I need to improve on. Lists about the kids at school and where I fall in front of and behind and between them. The second section of the binder is full of lists, too. Different kinds of lists. They're lists about the people in my life with a line drawn down the center. In the left column, I write good things. In the right column, I write bad things. Everyone's negatives and positives. My parents have a lot of pages. So does Gran. Their lists go on and on. Almost everyone's lists even out, the good balancing with the bad. Rachel Stern's the only person without a single positive comment. Even Mrs. Bernstein has one. 

There's nothing new to write about my parents. There's nothing new to write about Gran either. It's all the same things I've written again and again. Sometimes worded differently, sometimes exactly the same. I turn to Julie's page and in the left column write _appreciates gifts_. Then I turn to a fresh page in the back and write, very neatly, _Dawn Schafer_ across the top. I use a ruler to make a straight line down the center. In the left column, I write _pretty hair_ and _pretty skin_. In the right column, I write _poor dresser_ and _from California_. Perhaps, someday, I will write more. If Dawn is deserving. I close the binder and slide it back into its drawer, and switch off the desk lamp. 


	8. Chapter 8

I spend most of Wednesday afternoon at Gran's working on my summer reading and then, watching Gran work in her garden. Gran's in a mood. She's like that sometimes, difficult and distant, and speaking to her and getting her to speak is a chore. It's frustrating. This evening or tomorrow, the mood could shift and revert to normal. Or it could take a couple days. There is no clear pattern or obvious resolution. It all comes and goes on its own secret timetable. 

And that's just how it is. 

When I leave Gran's house at five o' clock, she's up to her elbows in dirt, digging tulip bulbs out of one of the flower beds. She barely notices when I say goodbye and leave. I don't go straight to my car. I cross the street to the house kitty-corner from Gran's. I hurry up the front steps and press the doorbell with a newly painted peach fingernail. While I wait, I flip my hair back over my shoulder and smooth the front of my blouse. It's off-white, scoop-necked with tiny peach and yellow flowers. I bought it at a shop in Fiji. I ring the bell again just as I hear feet padding across the tile on the other side of the door. 

Dawn answers. 

She's surprised to see me. She doesn't hide it. It passes across her face and eyes and lingers, staying there and not evaporating. 

"Hey," she says. 

"Hello," I reply and lean my right hand casually against the side of the porch wall above the doorbell. "I'm going to Julie Stern's house for a barbecue. Do you want to come? My grandmother said I had to invite you." 

Dawn cocks an eyebrow. "Since when do you do what your grandmother says?" she asks. 

"She's my grandmother. I have to listen to her." 

Dawn's eyebrow remains cocked. "Right," she says. "Did Julie say I could come? And is Mary Anne going to be there? I mean, I don't care if she's there, but she'll care if I am." 

"No and no," I answer. "Julie said I could bring anyone I want. I don't _want_ to bring you, but I sort of _have_ to. It will make my grandmother happy," I say and toss my hair again, even though it's already over my shoulders. "Mary Anne and Stacey are going to a play with Mrs. Baker. Claudia and Erica are coming though. So is Mari. And Pete Black and Ross Brown." 

"Wow. It's a real party." 

"Yes, and I believe they'll be serving red meat." 

"You have a real problem, you know that?" 

"What's going on, girls?" calls out Mrs. Porter's voice. She appears in the foyer behind Dawn and rests a hand on her shoulder. "Hello, Grace," she says. 

"Hello, Mrs. Porter." 

Dawn turns to her grandmother. "Grace came to invite me to a barbecue at Julie Stern's house. Mrs. McCracken made her." 

Well, Dawn didn't have to tell Mrs. Porter _that_. 

Mrs. Porter's eyebrow cocks in a way identical to Dawn's. "Really?" she says in a cool voice. "Maybe I should talk to Allison about that." 

I give my hair another casual toss. "No, you shouldn't. She isn't feeling well right now. She doesn't want any visitors." 

"Oh," Mrs. Porter says, her voice no longer cool. There's an odd quality to it. "In that case, I'll leave her alone for a couple days." 

"Can I go?" Dawn asks her grandmother. 

"Of course." 

"Let me get my bag," Dawn tells me, turning away from the doorway. She glances back over her shoulder. "You can come in." 

"That's okay," I reply and continue standing right where I am. If Mrs. Porter wasn't still lingering in the foyer, I'd suggest that Dawn change her clothes as well. Although her crime against fashion is much more minor today than usual. She's wearing jeans with a lacy magenta tank top, which is _almost_ cute. Almost. But then she had to go and ruin it all by wearing gray Birkenstock sandals. 

"Your shoes are hideous," I inform Dawn as we walk across the street to my car. "I'm uncertain if they should be allowed in my car." 

Dawn glances down at her feet. "My stepmom bought me these. She loves Birkenstocks," Dawn replies. "She's a cool stepmom." There's something strange, sort of arching, in her tone. "But they're comfortable." 

"Comfort is hardly all that matters," I say and duck into the driver's seat. 

When I turn onto Rosedale Road, I spot Erica's Thunderbird and Ross' Jeep Cherokee already parked in the Sterns' driveway. I park at the curb and just as Dawn and I climb out of the Corvette, Mari Drabek comes into view at the end of the block, pedaling fast toward us on her bicycle, her shoulder length dishwater blonde hair blowing wildly in the breeze created by her speed. Mari lives a couple blocks away on Cherry Valley Road. I called her last night to invite her, figuring that I had to since Julie expected it. I didn't tell Mari anything about Dawn. There wasn't a need to. I hadn't decided to invite her for sure. 

Mari screeches to a halt in the Sterns' driveway, her bicycle tires squealing on the cement. She stares at Dawn and I, eyes wide with shock. She doesn't speak. She just stares, straddling her bicycle, her windblown hair falling over her face. 

"Hey, Mar," I greet her, casually, striding nearer. "Is that a new tennis dress?" 

"Yes," Mari answers, automatically. The dress is sleeveless, pale mint blue with a skirt of thick pleats. "I wanted to show you." 

"It's fantastic. Look at my new sunglasses. My dad gave them to me. They're Chanel." 

"Awesome," Mari replies without expression. "What are you doing with Dawn Schafer?" she asks. 

"My grandmother's making me hang out with her," I answer. 

"Bummer." 

"You know," Dawn says, "I'm standing right here." 

Mari glances over at her and nods. "Hi, Dawn," she says in a light, even tone. 

"Hi, Mari," Dawn says back. 

I glance between them and then straighten my purse strap on my shoulder. "Come on, I hear the Sterns in the back," I tell them and turn toward the driveway, starting up it. "You'll want to bring your bicycle into the back, Mar," I call over my shoulder. 

Mari follows right behind me, walking beside her bicycle. Dawn lags further behind. Maybe she's actually intimidated by Mari. Mari isn't a mean person. She isn't exactly friendly either and sometimes she's very rude. She stands away from other people and I understand her. There are walls that must remain high and sturdy. Walls are for protection. They keep things out, they keep things in. 

I unlatch the wooden gate to Julie's backyard and lead the way through. The first people I see are Julie, Erica, and Claudia. Julie and Erica are seated on the tire swing that's suspended from a maple tree in the middle of the Sterns' yard. Claudia's twisting the swing around, so that the chain has become very tight. Claudia steps back and releases the tire. The chain untwists, spinning very fast, causing Julie and Erica to blur momentarily in quick revolution. When they rock to a stop, Erica appears vaguely ill and Julie laughs. 

"Hello!" I call out, thrusting an arm into the air and waving. 

All three look over. 

"Hey!" Julie shouts back, waving her own arm in the air. "Hi, Grace! Hi, Mari! Hi...Dawn?" Julie wrinkles her nose in confusion, staring at us, rocking slightly on the swing. 

"Hello," Dawn replies and next to me shifts from foot to foot. 

"Hey, Dawn," Claudia and Erica chorus together. "Grace, Mari." 

Julie slides off the swing, but becomes entangled in the chain and falls over sideways onto the ground. She jumps to her feet, laughing, and jogs over to us with Claudia and Erica trailing behind her at a much slower pace. "Thank you for coming to our barbecue, Miss Blume," she tells me when she reaches me. She places her hands on her hips and grins. "Hey, Mari. We're not playing tennis today, you know. But thanks for coming." Julie looks over at Dawn, confusion washing over her face again. "Thanks for coming, too," she says and without waiting for Dawn to reply, shifts her gaze to me. "You're hanging out with Dawn?" she asks. 

"Her grandmother's making her hang out with me," Dawn answers for me. 

Repeated back, my words sound a lot worse. 

I don't cringe. I just shrug. 

"Your grandmother's so bizarre," Julie informs me and then turns away. "Everyone else is back here. Come on," she announces and starts walking away from the side of the house, back to the yard. "Do you want something to drink?" she calls back to us, pausing beside a cooler on the patio. She kicks it open with her foot. 

I take out a grape soda, then step back and watch Claudia, Erica, and Mari dig through the ice in the cooler. Dawn hangs back, her hands clasped behind her back. She raises onto her toes and rocks back down. Julie and I are on opposite sides of the cooler and she widens her eyes at me in a meaningful way, mouth in a straight line. I know what she's thinking. She's thinking about Mary Anne. Julie is a lot things and most of them are strange, but she's also very loyal. She is loyal to Emily above all and I've always wondered how Stacey, Mary Anne, and I fall into line beneath her. I wonder now if Julie will play along for my sake or if she will stick with Mary Anne. I am uncertain and don't like the feeling at all. 

I pop open the soda can and glance around Julie's yard. Mr. Stern and Rachel are standing at the other end of the patio behind the barbecue with Julie's stupid dog, Holly, hanging around their feet. Mr. Stern looks up and grins and waves. Rachel looks up, too, and then promptly looks down again, prodding a hamburger patty with a two-pronged fork. Paul, Pete, and Ross are out in the yard seated at the Sterns' picnic table, eating chips and dip and chatting with Mrs. Stern, whose seated on the edge of the table top. 

Dawn steps closer to me and nudges me with her elbow. She nods to Mr. Stern. "Isn't that the guy from the post office?" she asks me. 

Julie hears her. "Yes," she replies, "but I usually just call him 'Dad'." 

"That's Mr. Stern," I tell Dawn. 

"I'll introduce you," Julie offers and walks off, waving for Dawn to follow her. I stay behind with the others, but watch Julie and Dawn stop beside the barbecue. They talk to Mr. Stern for awhile. Rachel keeps her head down the whole time. 

When Julie and Dawn return, Mrs. Stern has spotted us and leaves the picnic table, sweeping down on us. "Hello!" she exclaims, cheerfully. 

"Mom," Julie says, "this is Mary Anne's stepsister, Dawn. The one from California." 

"Hello, Dawn!" Mrs. Stern says, brightly. "It was nice of you to come even though Mary Anne couldn't be here." 

"Thanks," Dawn says a bit uncomfortably. 

I almost feel bad for her. 

_Almost._

"Oh, I have something for you, Mrs. Stern," Mari announces, speaking for the first time in quite awhile. She hands me her grape soda to hold and shrugs her heart-patterned drawstring bag off her back. She opens it and removes a clear tupperware container. "They're lemon coconut balls and my dad made them this morning. I don't think they're smushed." 

"That won't stop us from eating them," Mrs. Stern replies, taking the container and lifting the lid. "Thank you, Mari." 

Claudia comes to stand between Dawn and I. She's drinking a diet cola and eating a handful of Skittles. I have no idea where those came from. Perhaps, out of one of the many pockets on her purple fatigue pants. "Mari's dad is the dessert chef at Chez Maurice," she informs Dawn. "I should have started hanging around Mari's house years ago." 

"I don't really like sweets," Dawn says. "Does he cook, too?" 

"Yes," Mari answers. "He can do anything in the kitchen." 

"That's cool. Is your mom a chef, too?" 

"No," Mari says, stiffly. "She's not." 

I realize it's time to step in. I change the subject. "Mrs. Stern!" I cry. "You're wearing pants!" 

"Oh, I know!" Mrs. Stern exclaims and glances down at her black capri pants. Lately, all she wears are skirts and blazers. This is because Mrs. Stern decided that pants make her ass look much bigger than skirts do. After gossiping about the neighbors, the current size of her ass is Mrs. Stern's favorite topic of discussion. It's an odd obsession. While _I_ wouldn't want her ass, I really don't think it's that big. "I'm rethinking my position on pants," Mrs. Sterns tells me. "I think maybe it's the skirts that make my backside appear so large." 

"I think it's anything you wear," Julie interjects. 

"Oh, shut up," Mrs. Stern snaps. 

"The truth hurts," Julie says, seriously. 

"You should do what Grace's mom does," Claudia suggests, "and where those giant shoulder pads to make your waist look smaller." 

"That isn't why my mother wears those shoulder pads," I snap, irritably. 

"It isn't?" 

"No!" 

"My mistake," Claudia replies, easily, and takes a marshmallow out of her pocket. She pops it in her mouth. 

I glare at her for a moment, then look away. Honestly, what does Claudia Kishi know about fashion? She's wearing purple army fatigues with a black mesh jersey over a purple tube top. 

"Well, I wish I had your mother's waist and backside. Her butt is splendid," Mrs. Stern tells me. She says it completely seriously. "She's only a couple years younger than me. How does she do it?" 

"She exercises." 

"Oh, well! I'm not going to do _that_!" Mrs. Stern laughs and then turns and walks away, shouting something out to Mr. Stern, heading his way. 

Ten minutes later, after ten minutes of strained and awkward conversation, we sit down to eat. Mr. and Mrs. Stern and Rachel sit together at the table on the patio while the rest of us sit at the picnic table. I have the foresight to ensure that I am seated nowhere near Paul, who has called me "darling" eight times in the last three minutes. Instead, I sit down across from Pete and beside Dawn. Even though I don't like her, I kind of feel responsible for her. Mari sits down on my other side. I have to introduce Dawn to Paul and Ross. She already knows Pete, of course. 

"We have to say grace," Mari announces as Pete begins to take an enormous bite of his cheeseburger. 

"Yes," I agree, joining hands with Mari and then more reluctantly with Dawn. Typically, I only pray before meals when I am with Gran or Mari. Or the youth group. Mari is very insistent on it. Claudia and Erica give us a weird look, but join hands with each other and then with Julie and Pete. Pete and Ross grumble until a narrowed look from me silences them. Julie and Paul don't say anything at all. They simply do as they are told. 

When we start eating, Pete manages to tear his focus from his cheeseburger to Dawn. It appears to be quite an effort. "How is Mary Anne?" he asks her. "Has she mentioned me?" Dawn shrugs and sips the glass of iced tea that Mrs. Stern fetched her. Dawn refuses to drink soda. She refuses to eat a burger too. Instead her plate is filled with potato salad and green salad. "I haven't seen her much," Dawn confesses to Pete. "She isn't very happy with me." 

"Oh..." Pete says, sounding disappointed. He stares down at his cheeseburger, sadly. "Grace...?" 

"No," I answer. 

"Julie...?" 

"No," Julie snaps from down the table. "I've told you a hundred billion times, Pete. Mary Anne hasn't said anything about you. Now, please, stop asking!" 

"Yeah, really, Pete," Paul says. "Be grateful the chain has dropped from around your neck. Run while you're still free." Paul pops a chip into his mouth and crunches it loudly and swallows. "See, Grace and I have the ideal relationship. I don't have to call her or take her out or buy her anything. I just have to smile at her and be dashingly handsome and she's perfectly content." 

I roll my eyes. 

Dawn leans over me, her blonde hair falling in my potato salad. "You two are dating?" she asks in surprise. 

"Yes," I reply. "He's also dating Emily Bernstein. In his crazy, deluded mind." 

"O-_kay_," Dawn says and returns to her food, thankfully getting her hair out of mine. 

Dawn and Erica begin a conversation about the movie they saw the other night. I make a conscious effort not to listen. I don't want the entire plot spoiled. Julie may be doing the same. I'm not sure. She's acting very cool and not quite Julie-like, still undecided on where she stands on Dawn. I worry that she's leaning more toward Mary Anne's side. Julie and I are closer. She should automatically jump to my side, the way she does to Emily's. 

Mari and I discuss youth group for a bit until Claudia interrupts to tell Mari about a new class at the community center. Mari and Claudia are both artists and take a lot of the same classes at the community center. Mari isn't very interested in academics. She likes art and baking and tennis, and of course, church. Anything else isn't of much interest. I guess that's a reason we're friends. I guess that's a reason she and Claudia get along, too. Everyone knows Claudia's feelings about school. She did drop out in January. 

When I've eaten half my cheeseburger, I set it back on the plate and take a long drink of grape soda, nearly finishing the can. "Paul, go get me another grape soda," I command. 

Paul doesn't look up from his plate. He continues eating his chips and ranch dip. "You're ruining our perfect relationship, darling," he informs me. 

"But you don't have to _buy_ it," I point out. 

"True," Paul agrees and rises from the table. 

"Well played," says Pete. 

I shrug and pick up my cheeseburger. I reconsider and set it down again. "Hey, Pete," I say to him, "remember how my mom and your dad used to date?" 

Pete nods and takes a huge bite of potato salad. "Sure. Like a hundred years ago," he answers. "Why?" 

"No reason," I say and prod my own salad with my fork. "My grandmother and I were sort of talking about it the other day. Has your dad ever told you anything about when they dated?" 

"Not really," Pete answers. "I mean, that was a really long time ago. Like...thirty-five years? Man, our parents are _old_." Pete chuckles. "If he ever talks about past girlfriends, he usually talks about the other one. The one after your mom. They were together a lot longer. He wanted to marry her. I'm glad he didn't!" Pete chuckles again. 

"Did he ever say why he broke up with my mom?" 

Pete pauses and thinks. He shakes his head. "No. Not that I remember." 

"Has he said anything about her at all?" 

"Other than that they used to date? Not really. He said she was really hot though. Are you going to finish your cheeseburger?" 

Boys. 

After dinner, Paul and his friends go upstairs to his bedroom to play video games. All the girls gather at the side of the house, where the Sterns have a tetherball court, as well as the faded outline of a four-square court. We watch from the sidelines as Julie throttles each opponent while we munch on the lemon coconut balls Mari brought and the oatmeal M&M cookie bars Julie and Paul made earlier. For something that Julie and Paul likely made up the recipe to, the cookie bars taste pretty good. 

"This is boring," Julie announces after she's murdered Erica on the tetherball court. Erica's massaging her forehead in the spot where the ball smacked her only seconds earlier. Julie is brutal. She takes no prisoners. I'm certain she aimed for Erica's forehead. 

"I think you just don't want to play Grace," Dawn observes from the sidelines. She bites into the peach Mrs. Stern gave her. "It's her turn next." 

Julie snorts. "Grace's amazon height does not give her an advantage," she declares, loudly. "Especially not in those shoes." 

I glance down at my feet on which I'm wearing wedge sandals with tan rope straps. "I could beat you in these shoes," I inform Julie. 

She raises an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge, Miss Blume?" 

"It is," I reply, placing my hands on my hips and shaking my hair back. "And since you refuse to quit calling me 'Miss Blume', I'm going to annihilate you." 

"Stop using SAT words, Miss Blume. You obviously don't know the correct meaning of that word. You're going to curl up in a ball and cry and die." 

"You know, you're playing _tetherball_, right?" asks Dawn. 

"Julie and Grace are always stupid like this," Erica says. "They're too competitive." 

"There's no such thing as 'too competitive'," Mari pipes up. "Winning is very important." 

"No. Maybe Erica's right," Julie says and releases the tetherball from her grip. "Grace really shouldn't be playing in those shoes. She might break an ankle. Then her parents will sue my parents and we'll lose our house and we'll have to move in with the Bernsteins. It'll be a big mess. Let's go to Grace's house and swim instead." 

"Um..." I say and glance at my wristwatch. It's six-thirty. "I don't know if my parents are home." 

"So?" Julie replies. "We swim at your house all the time when they're gone. Your parents won't care if we swim while they're there. Your parents are cool." 

"Oh, well..." I say, hesitantly. 

"Actually, we can't go swimming," Erica tells us, gesturing to herself and Claudia. "I have to be at the library at eight tomorrow. Swimming this late will wear me out." 

"And I have to baby-sit for the Newtons at seven-thirty. Mr. and Mrs. Newton are having a late dinner with friends," Claudia adds. 

"We should probably go soon," Erica says. 

"I can't swim either," Mari says, but doesn't offer an explanation. It's doubtful she has any reason at all. Mari's not feeling friendly today. 

"Oh...too bad," Julie sighs. "Come on. We'll walk you out front." 

We wait for Claudia, Erica, and Mari to thank the Sterns and say goodbye. Then we have to wait for Claudia to finish stuffing cookie bars in her pockets and then even longer when Mrs. Stern catches her and insists on getting a bag. When that's finally finished, Julie, Dawn, and I walk them out to the front yard. It's still light out with heat hanging heavy in the air. Summer evenings in Stoneybrook are the best time of year. I wrap my arms around myself as the six of us stand on the lawn talking a few minutes more. Mari doesn't stay long. She hops on her bicycle and pedals off down Rosedale Road, turning once and waving. A few minutes later, Claudia and Erica say goodbye and drive away in Erica's Thunderbird. 

"What now?" I ask. 

"Aren't we going swimming at your house?" Julie replies. 

"Are we?" I respond, vaguely, brushing away her comment like a fleck of dust on my capris. 

"I think we should go over to Grace's grandmother's house and check out her attic," Dawn suggests, suddenly and out of nowhere. 

"What's in Mrs. McCracken's attic?" Julie asks in a rush of breath as if she can't quite get the question out fast enough. 

"Nothing," I answer, testily. 

Dawn ignores me. "We don't know yet," she tells Julie. "But Mrs. McCracken goes up there at two in the morning." 

"I know what she has up there," Julie announces, confidently. 

Even I raise an eyebrow. "What?" Dawn and I ask in unison. 

"A corpse," Julie answers. "The corpse of her _lover._ It's like that short story we read last year - 'A Rose For Emily'. When Mrs. McCracken dies, we're going to find a skeleton in the attic, laid out on the bed in a fresh pair of pajamas and there will be long red hairs on the pillow beside him." 

"You're a freak of nature, you know that?" I ask, crabbily. 

"You're just upset that I figured out your grandmother's deep dark secret. I think we all know who the freak of nature is in this town and her name's Allison McCracken." 

I swing my hand through the air and thump Julie upside the head. Sometimes, that's all that can be done. 

Julie barely notices. She's staring behind me, off into the distance. Her eyes widen and she shrieks. Dawn and I turn around. A black car has just come around the corner, headed down Rosedale Road, drawing nearer. 

"It's Mrs. Bernstein's Buick!" Julie shouts, racing into the street, waving her arms. "The Bernsteins came home early!" 


	9. Chapter 9

Emily Bernstein's out of the Buick before her mother's even come to a complete stop in their driveway. She flings open the car door and hops out, feet first onto the driveway, and slams the door behind her. Julie's already halfway to her, waving her arms in the air, taking long-legged leaps, and shouting something incomprehensible. I walk briskly behind with Dawn trailing me at more of a distance. I am more cautious than Julie. Julie doesn't think. I know there's a reason Emily flew out of that car like it was on fire and fast burning out of air. And my suspicions are confirmed when Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein's car doors fly open and they climb out, doing what they do best - fighting with each other. 

"I'm not cranky!" Mrs. Bernstein is shouting. "I'm tired! I've been driving twelve hours a day for the last week!" 

"You have not been driving twelve hours a day," Mr. Bernstein argues. "No one made you drive the entire time. Stop complaining!" 

"I'm not complaining! And who else is going to drive? Not you! You can't drive! You're a horrible driver! You want to kill me and Emily? You would kill us and would go to prison for involuntary manslaughter and there'd be no one to visit you because Emily and I would be dead!" 

Oh, yes, this was a pleasurable vacation. 

Emily and Julie ignore them. Emily runs for Julie, waving her own arms in the air, her curled chestnut brown hair bouncing off her shoulders. She and Julie reach each other and clasp hands, entwining them within each other, gripping tight. They squeal with delight and then begin a rush of words, rising and tripping over one another, Julie's husky voice and Emily's higher one, crashing into and melding together. 

And behind them, now raising the trunk of the Buick, Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein carry on. 

Dawn nudges me in the arm. "Are...are Emily's parents always like this?" she whispers. 

"The Bickering Bernsteins? Yes," I reply. "Lately." 

"You're crazy, Marian!" Mr. Bernstein exclaims, hoisting a suitcase out of the trunk. 

Dawn raises her eyebrows at me. I raise mine back at her. 

The first time I heard the Bernsteins fight was quite a shock. Emily and I were in her living room, working on a physics project and all of a sudden, the door from the garage banged open and loud from the kitchen swelled the angry, raised voices of Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein. They stormed straight through the living room without even noticing us. Mrs. Bernstein ranting and waving her arms and Mr. Bernstein stalking behind her, his voice drowning under hers. They were fighting about shoes. It was the stupidest fight I've ever heard. The whole time, through their march across the living room and up the stairs and down the hall until their bedroom door slammed behind them, Emily kept her head down, diligently copying an equation from her physics book. 

The entire incident was surprising. Mostly, because in all the years I've known him, I had never heard Mr. Bernstein speak above a loud whisper. That his voice could even reach such a level, angry or otherwise, pretty much turned my world upside down. 

"Grace!" Emily cries when she and Julie finish their incoherent conversation. She drops Julie's hands. "How are you? How was Fiji? I'm dying to hear all about it!" 

"I'm fine. It was great," I answer. I place a hand on my hip. I don't think Emily expects me to hug her. We are not the hugging kind. "How was the magical misery tour? A lot of fun, I see." 

Emily glances over her shoulder at her parents, who are still standing beside the Buick amongst their suitcases, still arguing but at a much lower level. Mrs. Bernstein's waving her finger in Mr. Bernstein's face. Emily looks back at us and rolls her eyes. "Oh...that's nothing. They're just having a discussion," she says. "It's been like this for the last three days. That's why we came home early. After Mom locked Dad out of the car outside a gas station in Philadelphia, we decided it was time to come home." 

"Your mother locked your father out of the car?" I repeat. 

"Yes," Emily replies. "You know how they are. They won't eat in non-kosher restaurants. They've basically been living on peanut butter and fruit for the last week. They have low-blood sugar." 

"Well, I hope they eat soon then." 

Emily purses her lips a moment, looking at me, then switches her attention to Dawn. "Hello," she says, appearing slightly perplexed. "Where are Stacey and Mary Anne?" 

"At a play in Stamford," Dawn answers. "Grace's grandmother is making her hang out with me. Mary Anne doesn't know." 

"Is that dumbness still going on?" Emily demands. 

"Yes," Dawn replies. 

Emily rolls her eyes. 

"Let's go back to my house," Julie suggests. 

"Okay," Emily agrees. "Oh! I have so much to show you! Let me get my bag!" Emily whirls around and races back to the Buick, where her parents are _still_ arguing. "You're in my way, Dad!" Emily cries and shoves Mr. Bernstein aside and throws open the car door. 

Dawn's eyes widen at me. I shrug. 

Emily comes back with a Georgetown tote bag slung over her shoulder. "I'm ready," she announces and sidles up to Julie, close to her side, and together they begin to walk away. "What have I missed while I've been gone?" Emily wants to know. 

"Well," Julie replies, "we recently discovered that Grace's grandmother has a penchant for necrophilia." 

"What? I leave the state for a week and Grace's grandmother becomes a sexual deviant?" 

"Fear not, I doubt the two are related." 

"You're both a real riot," I tell them. 

"We know," Emily and Julie reply in unison. 

When we reach Julie's house, Emily crashes through the front door, leading the way. Emily is used to being in charge. She runs Julie like she runs her parents. I realized long ago that often it's simpler to step back and let Emily assume control. 

"Hello, Sterns!" Emily calls out, marching across the foyer into the living room. 

A door bangs open at the back of the house and in a few seconds, Paul appears at the end of the hallway. He stretches his arms out to lean on either side of the archway. "Hello, sweetheart," he greets her. 

"Hello, cupcake," she replies. 

Paul grins. 

Mrs. Stern comes out of the kitchen. She shrieks and throws up her arms. Emily does the same. 

"You're home early!" Mrs. Stern exclaims and crosses to Emily, holding open her arms and wraps her in a hug. "Why didn't your parents come over?" she asks when she releases Emily. 

"Oh...they're having a discussion," Emily replies. 

"Oh..." Mrs. Stern says. "Well, I'll wait an hour before going over." 

When we finally get to Julie's bedroom, Julie shuts the door behind us. Luckily, Rachel isn't around. She and Julie share the bedroom and Rachel usually isn't very accommodating. Instead she's crabby and often refuses to leave. Julie and Rachel's bedroom is always messy to some degree. They rarely make their beds or pick their shoes up from the middle of the floor and they keep their desks and dressers cluttered with papers and books and tapes and art supplies. Emily and I are very neat. We like order. Sometimes the clutter in Julie's room drives me to distraction. Emily makes Julie's bed for her, pulling back the pink floral-print comforter and smoothing out the wrinkles. Then she and Julie fall back onto the daybed, side by side, propping themselves up against Julie's pillows. Emily starts unpacking her tote bag. I pull out Julie's desk chair and move the stack of books on its seat to the floor. I sit down and Dawn, appearing slightly uncomfortable again, takes a seat on the floor, tossing Rachel's sneakers out of the way, and folding her legs indian-style. 

"Here are all the information packets I picked up for you," Emily tells Julie, setting a massive stack of thick brochures on Julie's lap. "Most of them have applications. The trip was very informative. My parents and I are in complete agreement - Georgetown is definitely our number one choice. Second choice, though, Mom and I really liked Northwestern. Dad, however, was fond of the schools in Pennsylvania. You can look through the brochures and tell me what you think." 

"Are you going to look at any of these schools yourself?" Dawn asks Julie. 

Julie's flipping through a Northwestern brochure. She raises her eyes. "Oh, probably," she answers. "When we decide where we're going. I trust Emily and her parents' judgment." 

"Where do you want to go next year, Dawn?" Emily asks. 

"Chico State," Dawn replies. "That's in Northern California. I'm going to major in social work." 

"Mary Anne's thinking of majoring in social work, too," Julie says, tossing the Northwestern brochure back onto the stack. 

"I know," Dawn says. "She says I'm copying her." 

"Oh! More of that dumbness!" Emily exclaims, as she adjusts her ivory white headband. "Julie and I are both majoring in journalism and you don't see my head spinning around like some madwoman! What's gotten into Mary Anne? First, she dumps Pete Black like a crazy person and now she's carrying on with this! Remember when she was normal? I don't know what happened." Emily flips open a brochure and then promptly slams it closed again. "Grace! Have you at all decided where you're applying in the fall?" 

"No," I respond, shortly. "I figured I'd let you tell me where to apply." 

"Oh, all right then," Emily says and frisbees a brochure my way. "Check out Wellesley." 

"Thank you," I say and toss the brochure onto the desk without even glancing at it. "You're in an awfully chipper mood for having been stuck in a car with your parents for a week." 

"I spent most of the trip doing my summer reading. I can tune them out," Emily says and pauses. "And they were fine most of the trip," she adds, quickly. "It was a fun, informative vacation. We saw a lot at the schools and around the towns and Mom and I found all the nearest malls and shopping centers." 

"I'm sure your dad loved that," Julie laughs. 

"We left him at the hotel most of the time. Or he came along and sat on a bench reading. Of course, we had to hide most of our shopping bags in the car. Dad thinks Mom and I have far too many clothes and shoes already." 

"What is your father thinking?" I wonder aloud. "How can anyone possibly have too many mid-calf length skirts?" 

"Don't make fun of the way my mother dresses," Emily snaps. 

"Hey," says Julie, cutting in before I can respond. "I thought we were going swimming?" 

"Swimming?" Emily asks. "At Grace's house? Okay." 

"Oh...well..." I begin and check my wristwatch again. "It's kind of late." 

"It's only seven o' clock!" Emily cries, beginning to restack Julie's brochures. "It's still light out. Besides, your pool has a heater. I want to swim. My mother wouldn't let me go in any of the pools at the hotels. I need to call my parents. Julie, where's the phone?" 

I purse my lips and cross my legs and don't speak right away. I drum my fingers on my knee, thinking. "Fine," I finally say. "We can swim at my house. Just...um...let me call my parents first to see if they're home. I should warn them that you nutters are coming over. They may want to lock and bar the doors." 

Julie tosses me the cordless phone. I call my house, but no one answers. 

"See? It's fine then," Emily says and holds out her hand for the phone. Emily can be so pushy. She gets it from her mother. She begins dialing her number. 

"I hope they've eaten," I tell her. 

Emily ignores me, but turns slightly away, so she doesn't have to look straight at me. "Hello?" she says when someone answers at her house. "Yes, of course it's Emily!" she exclaims into the receiver. "No, I'm not upstairs! How could I be calling you if I was, Dad?...I'm at Julie's...What are you doing?...Why are you doing _that_?...Oh, I guess you're right. The cats probably were walking on the tables..." 

I roll my eyes. The Bernsteins are washing all the tabletops in the house. I know it. 

"We're going over to Grace's house to swim," Emily continues. "_Dad_! I've been back for half an hour!...We can go over the applications tomorrow...No, we don't need to do it tonight...Put Mom on the phone!...Because you're being completely unreasonable!...Put her on the phone!...Mom? Did you hear what he said to me?...yes, I know..._I know_...he's being ridiculous...I'm going over to Grace's house to swim...I can swim in the dark just fine...I'm going to come get my car...did you start the laundry yet? I want to wear one of my new shirts tomorrow...okay, I'll see you in a couple minutes..." Emily hangs up the phone. 

"Are they washing the tables?" I ask. 

"Yes," Emily says, lightly, sliding off the bed. She smoothes down her skirt. "You know how they like to clean. Especially after a discussion...which is over, by the way." 

I figured that's why she called first. 

Julie hops off the bed. "I'll get my swimsuit," she announces and pulls open one of her dresser drawers. She shoves aside the clothes in there until she comes up with her swim team suit. 

"Dawn will need a suit, too," I tell Julie. "She'll have to borrow one of yours. She won't fit into one of mine." 

"Jeez, thanks," Dawn comments from the floor. "You know, I don't think I'll come swimming." 

"Nonsense," Emily replies. "Are you ready, Julie? Come on then. We'll get my things and then come over to your house, okay, Grace?" 

"Yeah, sure," I say and rise from the desk chair. 

Dawn also stands up, picking the lemon yellow swimsuit off her head, where Julie tossed it. The four of us head out front after Julie informs her parents where we're going. Thankfully, Paul and his friends are still in Paul's bedroom, so there's no threat of them tagging along. Dawn and I climb into my Corvette as Julie and Emily continue across the street, both gesturing wildly with their hands in the middle of another simultaneous, incoherent conversation. In their own world and everyone else shut out. 

"Okay...I have to ask something," Dawn announces as I turn over the car. "Did I actually see Emily Bernstein shove her father?" 

"Yes." 

"Just checking," Dawn says and pauses a moment. "Emily is...not how I remembered." 

"She's exactly as I always remember her. You just didn't live here long enough." 

"I guess not," Dawn says. "And I was right about Julie. She is an odd duck. I don't know what to think of her. And she sounds like she has a cold." 

I actually laugh. "She always sounds like that. That's her voice. I think it's kind of sexy." 

"Have you ever told her that?" 

"No! She'd totally take it the wrong way." 

"I can imagine. Her mom has a strange voice, too. Very stuffy. Very New England. It doesn't sound like it's coming out of the right person. And you know, I'm not even commenting on Emily's parents." 

"The Bernsteins are nuts. That's all you need to know," I tell her, turning onto Locust Avenue. I press the garage door opener as I sweep up the drive and into the left hand spot in our three-car garage. My parents' Lexus is still missing. They're not yet home. My parents share a car since they're always together anyway. Besides, the only place they ever drive is back and forth from the train station. My mother rarely drives. Not since the seizure and the accident. 

"I've never been to your house before," Dawn remarks, as we walk into the darkened kitchen. "You know, I was thinking, if your mother is the CFO of Fiona Fee she must make a ton of money. Why are you living on Locust Avenue among all the commoners and not on the rich side of town with all the other snobs and millionaires?" 

"We aren't snobs," I reply, leading her through the kitchen and living room, flicking on lights as I pass their switches. "And we aren't millionaires either. My parents like living on Locust. There's only three of us. Why do we need a bigger house? This one has five bedrooms and a pool. That's enough." 

"You are kind of a snob," Dawn tells me. "Most of the time." 

I glance over my shoulder on the stairs and glare at her. Then I continue on my way, picking up the pace, moving much quicker than her. I lead her into my bedroom and cross straight to the walk-in closet, where I keep my swimsuits. Dawn has Julie's yellow suit draped over her shoulder. She wanders around my bedroom, checking out my things, stopping every so often and staring. 

"Your room is...exactly as I imagined," she informs me. "Prissy and neat and a shrine unto yourself," Dawn says, pausing in front of my trophy case, which stands right across from my queen-sized bed. Dawn moves a step back, as if to better take in the scope of my conceit and accomplishments. "You've won a lot of awards," she comments, her voice very neutral. 

"Yes. I have," I agree, coming out of the closet with an emerald green swimsuit. "Mostly for swim team and tennis team. I'm on varsity for both." 

"Oh, yes, you and Mari," Dawn replies and gently removes a picture of Mari and I from behind two of the swim trophies. In the photo, Mari and I are swinging our rackets in identical poses. "She doesn't like me. I'm not sure why. Is she just that snobby? I mean, I know why _you_ don't like me." 

"Mari isn't a snob," I tell her and begin unbuttoning my blouse. I shrug it off. "You're new, that's all. And you're coming to First Methodist. Mari doesn't like to mix youth group and regular life." I begin untying the straps on my sandals and leave it at that. 

"That doesn't make any sense," Dawn informs me. 

"Are you going to change or not?" I ask her. 

Dawn regards me a moment, then lifts her tank top over her head. I check her out, discreetly, and am pleased to see that I won't need to add her to the list of girls in my year who have larger breasts than me. Stacey and Emily are already ranked above me and that in itself is irksome. I step into my swimsuit and pull the thin straps over my shoulders. Dawn takes a long time, removing her jeans and then fussing with the straps on Julie's suit. She must be doing it to aggravate me. I wait impatiently, hands on my hips, fingers tapping against the emerald green material. Dawn leaves her clothes in a heap on my floor when she's through and I don't say anything, instead walking out of the room, expecting her to follow. 

I lead her back downstairs. I glance around the living room, as we descend the stairs. I always wonder how my house is seen through others' eyes. I wonder what they think and figure out and suspect, what the house reveals about my parents and myself and our secrets. 

The house is neat and orderly, thanks to the daily efforts of Marta. It's decorated mostly in pale blues and greens. We didn't decorate the house ourselves. My parents hired a woman to do it for us several years ago. It shows. The interior of the house doesn't reflect my parents. It's calm and smooth and neutral. My mother should have vibrant, frenetic colors, streaked all through the house. I don't think she ever notices and I don't think my father cares. 

There aren't many photos displayed in our house. They are sporadic, leaping over years, and scattered. There are some of my parents from before they were my parents, back when they were simply Fay and Hal and never intended to add on, to be anyone else to anyone else. I like these photos of them. I like the shallow glimpse into their past when they were young and different, not my parents, not the Blumes of Locust, not people who work too much and drink too much. There are photos of me, too, spread through the years, absently arranged and displayed. The photos never change. They sit on the same shelves and the same tables and hang against the same walls year after year, never shifting to the recent. Every so often, one of my parents remembers and sets out something newer, amongst the old, something nearer to who I currently am. Sometimes. Not often. 

When we reach the patio, I run and dive head first into the deep end, rocketing straight down like a bullet, the palms of my hands hitting the bottom. When I resurface, Dawn's stepping into the shallow end, timidly, sucking in her breath from the shock of the chilled water. 

"I thought Emily said this pool is heated." 

I shrug. "It isn't on. The water isn't so bad though. It was colder this morning when I swam." 

"How often do you swim?" 

"Oh...once or twice a day," I reply, treading the water in the deep end. 

Out front a car door slams followed by another. At first, I assume it's my parents, but then I hear the side gate unlatch and Julie slips through with Emily. They must have changed at Emily's because Julie has her swimsuit on underneath her shorts. Emily's fully dressed, still in the same sky blue skirt and white blouse as before. They toss their towels onto the patio table and Julie's out of her shorts and into the pool in a flash of a moment, jumping in feet first and sending a spray of water covering me and Dawn. Emily's much slower, more hesitant. She's shy because Dawn's new. I make a point not to watch her as she peels off her clothes and folds them neatly on the table. Julie and I keep our eyes trained on each other, giggling and talking until Emily comes to the edge of the pool and places her feet on the top step. I glance over at her then and see that, as expected, she's standing in her plain black swimsuit with her arms crossed and covering her breasts. Emily is tiny all over, except for her chest, the size of which makes her look as if she's about to topple forward. She's sensitive about it. I realize I should have warned Dawn. 

Thankfully, Dawn keeps her mouth shut, although I notice her eyes widen momentarily when Emily finally drops her arms. 

"It took you guys long enough to get here," I say before Dawn has a chance to speak. "Julie, were you gossiping with Mr. Bernstein?" 

"Yes. Although, I only had time to give him a brief overview of the current happenings around Stoneybrook. I know how impatient you are." 

"Hanging out with me is much more exciting than gossiping with Emily's father." 

"Well, it depends on the day and the gossip," Julie replies. 

"We called Stacey and Mary Anne from my house," Emily informs us, sitting down on the step. "I left a message with Mrs. McGill to let Stacey know I'm back. No one answered at your house, Dawn." 

Dawn shrugs. "I don't know. I'm staying with my grandparents." 

"Why?" Emily asks and then turns to Julie. "You didn't tell me this!" she cries. 

"I had a lot to tell! I couldn't remember everything!" 

"It's complicated," Dawn says and leans her head back in the water. "Mom and Richard are impossible at the moment. And Mary Anne's just...I don't know. It's much easier being at my grandparents' house right now." 

"I'd rather live in a dumpster than with either set of my grandparents," Emily says and then dunks underneath the water, leaving her chestnut-colored hair to float on the surface. 

A light flicks on inside the house, a light in the kitchen I didn't turn on. I slick my wet hair back with my hands, bobbing up and down in the water, and watch the patio door. I never have friends over in the evenings when I know my parents will eventually be home. It's not that my parents mind. My friends can be here any time. My parents like that I have friends. They like that I am popular. I just don't think my friends would understand my parents. 

The glass door slides open and Mom steps through. I am relieved that she looks especially well-put together today. I like her to look her classiest and most confident when she meets someone new. I want her to make the best first impression possible. Today she's in her usual stilettos - black - and dark nylons and a heather gray business suit with a deep neckline and wide belt. I am most relieved, however, that her hands are empty. 

"Hello, girls," Mom says, coming out to the pool edge. 

"Hi, Mom." 

"Hello, Mrs. Blume," Emily and Julie chorus together. 

"Mom, this is Mary Anne's stepsister, Dawn," I tell her. "Dawn, this is my mother." 

Mom regards Dawn a moment. "Oh...you're Sharon Porter's daughter," she says, flatly. Then she smiles, a bright, charming smile and bends forward, extending her hand to Dawn. "Hello, I'm Fay Blume, Grace's mother." 

Dawn takes her hand. "It's nice to meet you," she says. 

Mom shakes the water off her hand when Dawn releases it. She still smiles. "Where are Stacey and Mary Anne?" Mom asks. 

"At a play in Stamford," I answer. "Dawn's visiting from California, Mom. She's staying with the Porters." 

"Across the street from your mother," Dawn adds. 

"How unfortunate for you," Mom tells her, the flatness returning to her voice. 

"Mrs. Blume? May I ask you something?" Julie pipes up. 

I groan, inwardly. 

"You may." 

"What do you know about necrophilia?" 

I shoot Julie a killer glare. 

Mom knits her brow together. "What?" she asks, confused. 

"Never mind," Julie replies, laughing. 

The confusion doesn't leave Mom's face. "You girls are so silly," she says and begins to turn around. "Do you need anything?" she asks before she goes. "Would you like me to order something?" 

"No thanks, Mom. We ate at Julie's." 

"Okay then. Have fun." Mom walks back onto the patio and through the glass door. When she vanishes into the kitchen, Dad leans through the doorway and waves. We wave back and then he closes the door. 

Emily bursts out laughing and dunks back under the water. 

"I'm going to murder you, Julie Stern!" I screech and lunge across the shallow end, arms stretched out to her. 

Julie laughs and dives to the side, swimming away, but I catch her feet and pull her back. Emily grabs one of my legs and tugs. While we're struggling in the water, Dawn removes herself, moving away and perching on the edge of the pool, staring at us like we're completely mad. 

Emily, Julie, and Dawn leave around nine after Mrs. Bernstein telephones looking for Emily. Mom isn't pleased. She detests answering the telephone and having Mrs. Bernstein catch her off-guard. She tries to avoid Mrs. Bernstein at all costs. There's a lot of history and bad blood between them. Emily offers to drive Dawn home and after they leave, I put away the pool equipment and turn out the pool lights that Mom switched on when the sun set. Up in my room, I towel off my hair and pull it back with a scrunchie, then step out of my wet suit and into a pair of sweat shorts and a t-shirt Emily brought me from Georgetown. Exactly what I always wanted. 

Downstairs, my parents are in the office seated behind their desks. I stand in front of Mom's desk and wave away the cigar smoke wafting from Dad's direction. I think his cigars are disgusting. Mom tolerates them. She says as long as they're not cigarettes, she isn't bothered. Mom's on her laptop and raises a finger at me without looking up. I wait. She finishes and hits save and finally gives me her attention. 

"Is Julie Stern on drugs?" she asks. 

"No." 

"Then why was she asking about necrophilia?" 

Dad chuckles without looking up from his work. 

I don't answer right away. I lean forward slightly on the desk and then push back. Finally, I say, "Julie thinks Gran's keeping a corpse in her attic." 

"Well, nothing about that woman would surprise me," Mom replies, an edge in her voice. "And If Julie Stern is so interested in necrophilia, she's asking the wrong person. She needs to ask Bernard Bernstein. The man's been having sex with a corpse for the last twenty years." 

"Thank you, my dear, for putting such a vivid image in my head," Dad says, still not looking up. 

"That was hardly vivid, Harold," Mom argues. She picks up her glass from beside the laptop. It's something clear. "I could get much more descriptive than that, but Grace is only seventeen." 

"Oh, well, I'll cling to what I have." 

"Good, and remember that the next time you see Marian." 

"Oh, I will." 

"This conversation is disturbing in so many ways," I announce. 

Mom sips her drink. "I know it is, isn't it?" she replies and sets the glass down. She looks at me a moment. "You're hanging around with the Porter girl now?" she asks. 

"Dawn? Her last name is Schafer and no, I'm not hanging around with her. She's just around and it's rather annoying." 

Mom studies me, her mouth set in a line. "Good," she says in a flat and neutral tone. "Mary Anne is one thing. Dawn is another. I do not approve." 

I stare back at Mom. I don't understand. Is she telling me to stay away from Dawn? But Mom doesn't elaborate. She raises her glass to her lips again. I glance over at Dad, but he keeps his head down. He has no comment. I look back at Mom and am unsure of what to say. 

"All right," I finally reply. 

Mom nods and opens the top drawer of her desk. "Here, I'll write you a note as a reminder," she says and scribbles something out hurriedly on a bright yellow Post-It. She tears it off and reaches up and sticks it to my forehead. 


	10. Chapter 10

My parents are arguing. 

It's startling. Partly, because my parents rarely ever disagree. And partly, because it is the middle of the night. I am typically a heavy sleeper and sleep through my parents pounding up and down the stairs in the morning, talking loudly and slamming doors. I'm not sure why their voices wake me this time, but my door is open and they're in the hallway and the light spills into the room, ending right before my bed. I roll over and turn the alarm clock toward me. It's three-eighteen a.m. I sit up and rub my eyes, then swing my legs over the side of the bed. I can't hear what my parents are saying. Either their voices are too low or I am too sleepy. 

"What's going on?" I ask, interrupting them, leaning against the doorway to my bedroom. 

Mom and Dad stop arguing. They're in the middle of the hallway, only a few feet from my bedroom. Dad's in his pajamas, gray flannel pants and a t-shirt. He isn't wearing his glasses. Mom isn't wearing her pajamas. Instead she's dressed in a blue and lavender jogging outfit. 

"Your mother," Dad informs me, "has decided to take up jogging." 

"What?" I reply, wondering if I heard him incorrectly. "When did you decide this?" 

"Fifteen minutes ago," Mom answers. "I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep and the idea came to me. I'm ready to start now." 

"It's three-thirty in the morning!" I exclaim. 

"I know." 

"You aren't running around the neighborhood at three in the morning," Dad tells her. "It isn't even dawn yet. I don't care how safe Stoneybrook is, Fay, you aren't running in the dark." 

Mom raises her right eyebrow. "Excuse me?" she replies and rests her hands on her hips. She tilts her chin upward. "You are not my lord and master, Harold Blume. You will not tell me what I may and may not do. You don't control me." 

"I'm not trying to control you," Dad argues. "I just don't want my wife running through the streets by herself in the pitch black. It isn't safe. It isn't sane either." 

"Well," Mom says and lifts her left hand, fanning her fingers out. She slides off her wedding ring and tosses it at Dad. "Pretend I'm not your wife then," she tells him and then turns and rushes down the hall and down the stairs. 

The front door opens and slams shut. 

Dad and I stare at each other. 

"Are you going after her?" I finally ask. 

"That'll only make her angry," Dad answers. 

"Is she okay?" I ask. 

"Is she okay?" Dad repeats, bewildered. 

"Deciding to start jogging at three in the morning isn't exactly normal," I point out. 

"Oh...well..." Dad says and scratches the back of his head, where he still has some hair. "That's Fay. She doesn't sleep much. You know that. And she doesn't sleep well." Dad bends down and plucks Mom's wedding ring from the tan carpet. "Go back to bed, Grace." 

I hesitate and then obey, slipping back into my room and back into bed, pulling the covers over me. I lay on my left side, facing the alarm clock, which glows bright blue in the dark. I listen to Dad's footfalls on the stairs and in the dead silence of the house, hear the soft creak of an armchair as he sits down, followed by the rustling of yesterday's newspaper. I lay awake, listening to him turn the pages, the singular sound in the house. I lay until five after four when the front door opens and Mom's sneakers squeak on the foyer tile. I rise, quietly, from my bed and slip soundlessly into the hallway and creep to the staircase landing. I can see my parents down below, Mom coming into the living room, cheeks flushed from the cold, and Dad rising from the armchair, folding his newspaper. 

"May I have my ring back?" Mom asks him. 

"Of course, my dear," Dad replies and opens his hand, revealing the ring resting in his palm. Mom holds out her left hand and Dad steps forward and takes her wrist in his hand. He slides the ring back onto her finger. Mom stares at it a moment, the three diamonds sitting on her finger, and then looks up at Dad and raises her face to his. She kisses him a long time. When she pulls back, she buries her face in the curve of his neck, arms wrapped tight around his back. They don't speak. They just stand there. And they're still there when I turn around and return to bed. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

I drive over to Gran's house after lunch. I ring the doorbell five times before she answers. When she does, she cracks the door open and peers out at me with tired, pale blue eyes. 

"I wasn't expecting you," Gran says and her voice sounds tired, too. "Come in." Gran steps back and opens the door wider. She isn't dressed, even though it's nearly one o' clock. Instead, she's wearing a long white nightgown underneath her powder blue silk robe. 

"Were you asleep?" I ask her, stepping into the foyer. 

"No. I wasn't asleep," Gran answers, leaving the foyer. Her voice drags behind her. 

"Do you have another headache?" 

"No." 

"Oh...Where's Brigitta?" I ask, following Gran into the living room. 

"I sent her home. I don't need her here, rattling around and making noise," Gran says and sits down on the couch. She never uses the living room. Aside from her bedroom, the only rooms I ever see her in are the library and kitchen. 

I wonder if she's trying to tell me something. I wonder that sometimes, if there are hidden meanings in her words. "Oh..." I say, hesitantly. "Do you want me to leave?" 

"No. No. I don't care if you're here," Gran replies and leans her head back against the couch. 

"Are you sleeping all right?" I ask her, sitting down on the couch opposite her. 

"I sleep fine," Gran tells me. 

"Don't you ever have trouble sleeping?" 

"What an odd question. Of course. Sometimes. Doesn't everybody?" 

I study her a moment. I can't tell if she's lying. I don't see why Dawn would make up stories about Gran staying up late nights, prowling around in her attic. But I don't see why Gran wouldn't admit it either. She can't be sleeping fine if she's awake in the early morning hours. I look at her and she looks exactly the same as any other day, only more worn out, slightly older. There's the same natural rose flush to her pale cheeks, her mouth set in the same relaxed line. 

"I don't think Mom's sleeping well," I tell Gran and immediately regret my words as they pass through my lips. I dislike speaking of Mom to Gran and vice versa. It feels like a betrayal and weighs guiltily on my mind. 

"She works too much." 

I'm uncertain what the two have to do with one another. "She works hard," I say. 

"She works too much," Gran says again. "It's just like when she was a girl. Always moving, always going somewhere, always doing something. She never sat still. She would never just be quiet. She was so demanding, just like she is now. I don't know how your father puts up with her. Your mother is lucky to have found a man so worshipful of her. But then, Fay always had a knack for getting exactly what she wanted." Gran closes her eyes. 

"Don't you think Dad's lucky to have her, too?" 

Gran opens one of her eyes, the pale blue watching me. Mine are the same color, almost exactly the same shade. Mom's are green. It's the single major difference in our appearances, a ripple in the mirror image of Mom at seventeen. 

"I suppose he's lucky," Gran concedes and closes the eye again. "Fay is very lovely." 

"I think Mom's more than that." 

"Fay is a chore," Gran says, flatly. 

I should have stayed away another day. Gran's mood has not shifted. I cross my legs and fold my hands over my bare knee. Gran and I sit in silence for awhile. I wonder if I should leave. Maybe I should request that Gran telephone when she is feeling like her normal self again. 

But I don't. 

"Mom doesn't want me hanging around with Dawn," I inform Gran. 

"Because it was my idea?" Gran asks and shifts on the couch, moving so that she stretches across lengthwise on her back, head propped on the armrest. 

"No. She didn't say why," I answer. "She doesn't like Dawn's mother. At least, I think she doesn't. She's never said specifically so." 

"Fay doesn't like anyone." 

I frown at Gran, even though her eyes are closed. That isn't true. Mom likes a lot of people. My parents are very popular in Stoneybrook. They are funny and charming and never around. That makes liking someone easier, I think, if they are never around to really know. 

"When Mom was younger, did she and Mrs. Spier not get along?" I ask Gran. 

"I don't remember. It was so long ago. I can't imagine why they wouldn't have. Fay is five years older and Margolo and Sharon were never here. They were always over at Rita's house. When would Fay and Sharon have had the chance to not get along? Fay and Margolo fought all the time though. And Margolo and Corinne. And Fay and Corinne. All of them were always fighting. I never should have had three. I hoped there wouldn't be any more after Fay. Fay was more than enough." 

"I never knew you only wanted my mother." 

Gran doesn't answer. 

When the silence wears on, I ask, "You wanted my mother, right?" 

"What does it matter? I got her." 

"You didn't answer my question." 

"You ask too many questions," Gran replies. "You're a very nosy girl. What does any of this matter now? Fay is fifty-one years old. She's here. She's not going anywhere. What's done is done." 

My mother didn't want me either. I wonder if Mom knows. I wonder if she knows how it feels to know you were not wanted. 

"Were you happy when she was born though?" I ask Gran. Sometimes I wonder if Mom was happy when I was born, or if she was still crying over me. 

"I don't remember. I suppose I was," Gran says and drapes her arm over her eyes. "I remember that I was annoyed. Your grandfather tried to name her Vivian. I had already decided that her name was Fay. Everyone said her name should be Vivian. Vivian was Ian's mother. He tried to name all the girls Vivian. It was such an ordeal each time. _Vivian_. Such a ridiculous name. I wasn't naming any of my daughters that." 

_That's_ what she remembers? 

"I chose perfectly lovely names," Gran continues, "and Ian and my parents laughed at them all. They said I made Margolo up. It's a real name. And there's nothing wrong with the name Fay. It isn't silly at all. Of course, they were always laughing at me. And I had your mother and they laughed at her name and then that was it. They left me alone. What did I know about babies? I was only twenty-one years old and I'd spent almost my entire life at Miss Kingston's. My parents dropped me off in September and picked me up again in June. Then they dragged me to Scotland and left me there all summer. I never baby-sat. I never knew any little children. Fay was a horrible baby. She was always sick. I would call my mother and she'd say, 'Quit whining, Allison. You're an adult. Grow up. Do what you must.' That was her response for everything." 

And I am speechless. 

I don't think Gran even notices. 

"I'm very tired," Gran announces. "I'm going to take a nap." 

I'm uncertain if she means right here and now on the couch. I wait for her to say more, but she doesn't. "Should I leave then?" I ask. 

"You don't have to. You may stay if you like." 

Am I supposed to watch her sleep? That doesn't appeal to me at all. I stand up from the couch and smooth out my skirt. "I guess I'll go then," I tell her. "I hope you feel better, Gran." 

"Thank you," she replies without moving her arm from over her eyes. "Come back tomorrow. Perhaps, I'll feel better." 

I hesitate. "All right," I say. 

I leave Gran's house. When I shut the front door behind me, I lean back against it and take a deep breath. Sometimes I think I understand Gran and then sometimes she turns as perplexing as my mother. And sometimes she is so warm and wonderful and then sometimes...she is someone else altogether. 

I check my wristwatch and it's barely even one-thirty. I still have an entire day to fill. I know where I'll go, but decide to make a stop first. I cross the street, quickly, before I change my mind. So rarely does my mother tell me what not to do that I am unsure if I should disregard her. I am used to doing exactly as I please. Maybe I should listen simply because Mom asks so little of me. She's only ever forbidden me from seeing one person and that was Cokie Mason. I've honored that. And I understand the reason. 

Dawn answers the door. 

"This is becoming a routine," she says. 

I instantly regret coming over. 

"Did your grandmother send you?" Dawn asks. 

"No," I reply, testily. "I came over to tell you that I'm going over to Emily Bernstein's house." 

"So?" 

"So, do you want to come? I'm certain that you're feeling like a loser hanging around here by yourself." 

"You have a real charming way about you," Dawn tells me. 

"I know." 

Dawn smiles, slightly. "What's going on at Emily Bernstein's house?" 

I shrug. "I don't know. But Emily and Julie are always there," I answer and check my wristwatch again. "And Emily's parents won't be home until after six. That's important to remember. Monday through Thursday, they're in the door by six-ten. Fridays, they're in by four. I try to make sure I'm gone by then." 

"That is really sad," Dawn says with a laugh. 

"Have you ever actually met the Bernsteins?" 

"Well, yeah. I've been in their pharmacy a couple times. And you know, yesterday." 

"No, you haven't experienced the Bernsteins at all," I inform her and lean my right hand up against the door frame. "They are the two most bizarre people I've ever met in my life. Mrs. Bernstein is thoroughly unpleasant. The woman is incapable of saying anything nice without following it up with something rude. And Mr. Bernstein is just weird. Have you ever spoken to him?" 

"Um...I don't think so." 

"Oh, you'd remember. He won't look at you when he speaks to you. He looks at the computer, he looks at the register, he looks at the wall over your shoulder. Sometimes he _will_ look directly at you and when he does, he usually appears confused. Like, you'll be talking to him and waiting for a response and he stares at you with his mouth kind of open and then an hour later, he finally says what he has to say." 

"Are you serious?" 

I nod. "Absolutely. I think it stems from the fact that living with Mrs. Bernstein, he never knows when it will finally be his turn to speak." 

"He seemed to be doing all right yesterday." 

I point a finger at her. "_That_ is a new development. I think he's finally snapped. Certainly, he's been teetering on the edge for years. But when they're not having one of their 'discussions', he's the same empty shell of a man, staring down at the pharmacy counter while you're trying to find out if your prescription is ready." 

Dawn laughs. "Okay, well, thanks for the tutorial." 

"Oh, that's just part one of Conversations With Mr. Bernstein. I'll give you the second part next time. And Mrs. Bernstein, there's no lessons on speaking to her. Just don't. So, do you want to come?" 

"Oh, I don't know. You've made Emily's house sound so enticing...I suppose I'll come. Granny and Pop-Pop are out. Let me leave them a note and grab my bag. Do you want to come in?" 

"No thanks." 

Dawn returns a couple minutes later with an olive green woven bag over her shoulder. I don't find today's outfit nearly as objectionable as the others. She's just wearing jean shorts and a fitted white t-shirt. However, she's wearing those hideous shoes again and that's quite unforgivable. I'm uncertain if she was wearing them when she answered the door. She may have put them on simply to annoy me. 

When we reach Rosedale Road, I park at the curb behind Emily's Toyota. Dawn and I cross the front yard together and I ring the doorbell twice in a row. It's a long stretch of seconds before I hear someone's feet padding across the foyer. Emily opens the door. 

"Hello!" she greets us and opens the door wider. "Julie and I figured you'd be over eventually," she says to me, then looks over at Dawn. "Hi, Dawn." 

"Hey," Dawn replies, stepping after me into Emily's house. 

Walking into Emily's house is like walking into a freezer. I'm pretty sure the Bernsteins set the thermostat to fifty or below. It isn't just in the summer. It's year round. And year round, Mrs. Bernstein walks around in sweaters and Mr. Bernstein in short-sleeved shirts. It doesn't make any sense. I'm fairly certain the Bernsteins aren't human. 

When Emily turns around and begins leading us toward the living room, I sniff the air. Emily's house always smells exactly the same. Vanilla air freshener barely masking the underlying smell of bleach. Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein are obsessive housekeepers. What time they don't spend at their pharmacy, they spend on their hands and knees scrubbing the floors. There's something wrong with that. 

"Grace and Dawn are here," Emily announces to Julie when we come into the living room. 

Julie's lying on the carpet in front of the television set. She's surrounded by stacks of college brochures, but those are shoved mostly to the side. In front of Julie, there's a half-finished card game that Dawn and I interrupted. Emily takes a seat on the other side of the game and resumes playing, flipping over and moving the cards around. I toss my purse onto the coffee table and fall back onto the couch. I gesture for Dawn to do the same. 

And then I hear a cabinet bang shut in the kitchen. 

I whip my head around in the direction of the sound, mouth turning down in a frown. "Is someone else home?" I ask Emily. 

She glances up from her game. "Yes," she answers. "My mother just got home." 

"Why isn't she at the pharmacy?" I ask, barely holding back the grouchiness in my voice. 

"She was there earlier. She opened and my dad went in this afternoon. They decided they needed some time apart," Emily explains and bites her lip and turns over another card. "Besides, there was a lot of housework to be done. Dad finished all the laundry this morning and now Mom's cleaning the kitchen." 

"Why aren't you helping?" Dawn asks. 

Emily wrinkles her nose. "I hate housework," she answers. 

"So do I," Julie says, setting down a card, "but my mother doesn't think that's an adequate excuse." 

The kitchen door swings open and Mrs. Bernstein walks out. She has not failed my expectations. She's wearing a mid-calf length jean skirt with a dark orange cardigan sweater. In the middle of June. Mrs. Bernstein comes slowly into the living room. The woman never smiles. I think her face might shatter if she ever tried. She's petite like Emily but slightly taller and they have the same thin, straight nose. Luckily for Emily, that's where the similarities end. 

Mrs. Bernstein doesn't like me. She always looks irritated when I'm around. She's never forgiven me for all those years Cokie and I called Emily "Emily Bernstink". Kindergarten to fourth grade, Cokie and I spent most of our time and energy thinking of new ways to make Emily miserable. She was such a strange kid. She was so little and quiet and neat. It annoyed us. She was different in other ways, too. She never ate the school lunches or the food at class parties and whenever anyone had a birthday party on a Saturday, Emily never came. Then there were all these foods she couldn't eat. We didn't understand. It all just made Emily seem so much weirder. 

Mrs. Bernstein doesn't like my mother either. Kindergarten to fourth grade, they spent a lot of time on the phone together, arguing. There was a stretch of time during third grade when Mrs. Bernstein called every night. My mother blamed Cokie. Mrs. Bernstein didn't appreciate that excuse. 

"Hello, ladies," Mrs. Bernstein greets us in a toneless voice. She must be in a good mood. Usually, she sounds crabby. "Hello, Miss Blume," she says to me and on the floor Julie barely stifles a giggle. Mrs. Bernstein glances over at Dawn. "And I don't know who you are," she says. 

"Mom, this is Mary Anne's stepsister, Dawn. She's visiting from California for the summer." 

"Hello, Dawn. It's nice to meet you," Mrs. Bernstein says. "Would you like something to drink?" 

"No thanks, Mrs. Bernstein," Dawn replies. She pauses. "It's nice to meet you, too." 

"Miss Blume, would you like something to drink?" 

"No," I say, edgily. 

Emily picks up a green glass from the coffee table and holds it up. "I'd like some more milk, please," she informs her mother. 

Mrs. Bernstein steps forward and takes the glass. "Julie?" 

"I'm fine," Julie answers. "But I _would_ like some more cookies." 

"So would I," Emily adds. 

"All right," Mrs. Bernstein replies and turns to leave the room. Then she turns back. "Since this is Dawn's first time in our home, don't forget to tell her the house rules." 

Emily rolls her eyes. 

"Please don't roll your eyes at me, Emily Elaine. Please do as I say." Then Mrs. Bernstein turns again and leaves the room, pushing back through the kitchen door. 

Emily sighs, heavily and spins around to face Dawn. She leans back on her elbows and rolls her eyes again. "Okay, it's dumb, but they make me tell everyone who comes over." 

"I can't believe they still make you do this," I cut in, chuckling. 

"Yes, I know. It's dumb," Emily replies. "All right, Dawn - the house rules. There is no playing on the staircase. There is no loitering on the staircase. There is no sliding down the banister or sliding objects down the banister or sending people or objects flying over the banister. And there is definitely no tying ropes or people or chairs to the banister." 

Dawn looks over at me and then back at Emily. "There is a story behind these rules, isn't there?" she asks. 

"Yes," Emily answers, "but we don't like telling it. My parents are still miffed about having to pay Lauren Hoffman's emergency room expenses. She's still not allowed in this house." 

"Lauren Hoffman isn't allowed in anyone's house," I snort, disdainfully, "except Erica Blumberg's." 

"Who is Lauren Hoffman?" Dawn asks. 

"The girl responsible for some of my most painful childhood memories," Emily responds. 

Julie laughs. "The staircase incident is my most cherished second grade memory!" she cries. 

Emily narrows her eyes. "That's because you're the only one who escaped unscathed." 

"Hey, you'd been wanting to lose your baby teeth," Julie says with another laugh. "And Paul totally didn't end up with a scar like the doctor predicted." 

Dawn opens her mouth to say something more, but the kitchen door swings open again and Mrs. Bernstein comes out carrying a plate of peanut butter cookies and Emily's milk. She sets both down on the coffee table, still wearing her usual grim expression. I've no idea when she found time to bake cookies. She's been home less than twenty-four hours. And it smells like she's already cleaned the entire house. 

"Thanks, Mom," Emily says, pushing herself into a sitting position and reaching for the glass. 

"Thanks, Mrs. Bernstein," Julie's voice echos behind Emily's. She holds the plate out to me and I know enough to take a cookie. I pick one off the plate and bite into it, then shoot Dawn a pointed look. 

Dawn doesn't notice. She waves the plate away when Julie offers it. "I don't eat cookies," she explains. 

"You don't eat cookies?" Mrs. Bernstein repeats and stares at Dawn from behind her glasses. "Why not? Are you on a diet? You're much too young to be dieting." 

"Cookies aren't good for you," Dawn replies. "All that sugar." 

Mrs. Bernstein continues to stare at Dawn. "One cookie isn't going to hurt you," she says in her crabby voice. "If you ate twenty, then you'd have a problem." and she turns and goes back into the kitchen. 

"You offended her," Emily informs Dawn, sounding slightly irritated. "It may take her awhile to get over this." 

Dawn looks over at me. I look over at Dawn. She cocks an eyebrow. I shrug. I warned her that Mrs. Bernstein is nuts. 

"Hey, Emily," I say and nudge her back with my foot. 

Emily turns around. "Yes? May I help you?" 

"Did you open your report card yet?" 

"Of course." 

"What did you get in P.E.?" I ask. If she says an A, I'm kicking her in the head. 

Emily doesn't answer right away. 

My jaw drops. "Did you get an A?" I demand. 

"Yes and you don't know how many of those dumb history of sports papers I had to write to get that A! Coach Keller should have told me she was docking points for all those excuse notes my mother wrote for me!" 

Julie laughs. "You know what I think did it for Coach Keller? The note that said, 'please excuse Emily from P.E. today. She was up late last night studying for classes of importance.'" 

Dawn laughs, too. "Your mother did not actually write that!" she cries. 

"Oh, she did," I confirm. "I saw the note." 

"I think everyone saw that note," Julie says. "I also think Coach Keller's head nearly exploded when she read it." 

"P.E. is dumb," Emily says and begins restacking the deck of cards. "I'm so glad we don't have to take it next year! It's such a waste of time and really, my mother was running out of good excuses." 

"She was," Julie agrees. "She did give you the bubonic plague once." 

"Oh, she did not! She was joking. She gave me a sprained ankle." 

"Wasn't that your fifteenth sprained ankle of the year?" I ask. "You were getting really good at hobbling around." 

"I practiced at home," Emily says and sits up on her knees. "Do you want to see my photos from the trip? My dad took them to the one-hour place this morning." Emily leans over and moves aside some of her college brochures until she comes up with a photo envelope. She moves onto the couch between Dawn and I and begins flipping through the photos, explaining about each school and her thoughts and her parents' thoughts on them. The photos aren't very interesting. They're mostly of buildings, which is...not interesting. Occasionally, Emily pops up in the photos. 

"I hope my dad and stepmom take lots of photos while they're in Europe," Dawn tells us when Emily is through and putting away her photos. 

Emily perks up. "They're in Europe?" she asks. "I've been to Europe three times. Why aren't you with them? I'd never forgive my parents if they took a trip like that without me." 

Julie looks up from where she's stretched out on the floor, nibbling on what must be her fifth or sixth cookie. "Yeah, why didn't you go?" she asks Dawn. 

Dawn shrugs. 

"What kind of an answer is that?" Emily wants to know. 

I raise an eyebrow at Dawn. I've been wondering the reason as well. 

Dawn shrugs again. "He went with his new family," she says, simply. 

No one says anything for a moment. 

"His new family?" Emily finally asks. 

"What is that supposed to mean?" I follow. 

Dawn wraps a lock of hair around her finger, appearing awkward and uncomfortable. It's understandable. She doesn't know us. We aren't her friends. Probably none of us know exactly why she's even here. "Jeff and I are Dad's old family," Dawn says after a minute. "We're in high school now and self-sufficient. My stepsister, Gracie, she's almost four and Carol's pregnant again. They're his new family. This trip is supposed to create a stronger bond between them. That's what Carol said." 

Emily and I exchange a look and then another with Julie on the floor. I assumed Dawn wasn't in Europe with her father because they don't get along, because underneath her surface she's just as terrible and rotten as Mary Anne claims. Now I wonder where the real truth lies. In the middle or in someone's favor? 

"Well, that's stupid," Julie exclaims, rolling onto her side. She props up on her elbow. "Aren't you supposed to be one family? Do you have a wicked stepmother or something?" She's probably thinking of Sharon and how Sharon and Mary Anne are constantly upset with one another. 

"No. She isn't wicked at all," Dawn replies. "She's just...well, she's a _cool_ stepmom. That's what she calls herself. She thinks she's my best friend." 

"How annoying," I respond. Who wants a clingy mother who doesn't permit you to breathe? 

"My dad thinks it's cute," Dawn continues, wrapping her hair tighter. "It isn't cute." 

Speaking of mothers who don't permit their children to breathe, Mrs. Bernstein comes back out of the kitchen. Yet again. This time she's holding two identical green glasses, one in each hand. "I brought you a glass of milk," she informs me, holding out one of the glasses. She holds the other out to Dawn. "I hope milk is healthy enough for you," she says. "It's low-fat. We also have whole milk, if that is preferable. I know Emily and Grace like low-fat, but Julie prefers whole." 

"Um...this is fine," Dawn replies. "Thank you." 

"Yes, thank you," I echo and sip the milk. When Mrs. Bernstein turns her attention to where Emily has rejoined Julie on the floor, I look over at Dawn and mouth _so weird_ and Dawn cocks an eyebrow and nods. 

"What are you girls doing?" Mrs. Bernstein is asking Emily and Julie. "Are Stacey and Mary Anne coming over later?" 

Emily shakes her head. Stacey and Mary Anne never come over to Emily's house. Except in the fall and winter to use the Bernsteins' hot tub and they're always gone before Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein come home. Mary Anne is afraid of Mrs. Bernstein. 

"We're going over to Stacey's later," Emily answers. 

I take a quick swallow of milk. "What?" I ask, surprised. This is the first I've heard about it. 

"Oh, yes," Emily replies, breezily. "Stacey called earlier today. We're all going over tonight. I was waiting to tell you. Dawn, you'll come too." 

"Um...no thanks," Dawn tells her. 

"Oh, really now!" Emily exclaims. "This dumbness has gone on long enough! It's ending tonight. Stacey and Mary Anne are making us dinner. It'll be fun." 

On the floor beside Emily, Julie looks doubtful, but she keeps her silence. I share her skepticism. 

"Emily," Mrs. Bernstein says, "I thought we were going to the store tonight to pick out the fabric for your new curtains." 

Emily looks up at her mother. "Can't we go tomorrow instead?" she asks. 

"If you prefer," Mrs. Bernstein replies. "However, you also promised your father that you would go over your applications with him." 

"I didn't exactly _promise_," Emily argues. 

"He will see it differently and he will be very disappointed," Mrs. Bernstein tells her. 

"Can't you deal with him?" 

Mrs. Bernstein doesn't answer right away. She regards Emily, dark eyes staring from behind her glasses, face expressionless. She slips her hands into the pockets of her cardigan and says, "Yes. I will deal with him." 

Mrs. Bernstein leaves then, this time going upstairs. Thankfully, she doesn't come down again. Emily switches on the television and we spend the next hour and a half flipping back and forth through channels between soap operas and talk shows. Emily, Julie, and I have fun, but Dawn remains quiet, hovering on our outer edges. She doesn't appear so self-confident at the moment. She's worrying about Mary Anne. She's deciding if we can somehow physically force her to go to Stacey's house. Dawn's been away from Stoneybrook far too long. She doesn't realize that even when it's spoken, Emily never hears "no". 


	11. Chapter 11

Emily has her way, of course. 

Dawn doesn't offer much argument. She gives in quite easily. We leave Emily's house around five, leaving her mother banging around noisily in the kitchen. We decide to take Emily's car and come back for mine later. Before heading to Stacey's, we drive downtown to the A&P for last minute sodas and garlic that Stacey called and requested we bring. Emily didn't tell Stacey about Dawn. I didn't expect her to. I doubt anyone did. Dawn will be our surprise for the party. 

I suspect this won't end well. 

Stacey lives on Elm Street with her mother. Her dad lives in New York. He's a jerk. Stacey's never said so, but I'm sure she knows. Emily, Julie, and I have discussed it quite often. Mr. McGill never sees Stacey. Several years ago, she visited him every other weekend, but now she doesn't even visit once a month. He's always canceling their plans. In the fall and winter, he never comes to Stacey's math competitions and in the spring, he doesn't come to her swim meets either. It's almost like he doesn't exist at all. My parents, at least, make an effort to attend my tennis matches and swim meets. They aren't always there, but they try. 

Stacey is lucky though because she has Mrs. McGill for a mother. Everyone likes Mrs. McGill. It's sort of like how everyone likes Mrs. Stern, except that Mrs. McGill is normal. My mother is very fond of Mrs. McGill. Mom likes Mrs. Stern, too, but Mrs. Stern confuses her. They don't really have anything in common. But Mrs. McGill is very stylish and she and Mom can talk about clothes and about New York, where they both used to live. I think my mother has missed that in a way, having things in common with another mother, like she used to with Mrs. Mason before they grew apart. 

"Maybe this isn't such a great idea," Dawn says, doubtfully, when we're standing on Stacey's porch and Julie's rung the doorbell. 

"Nonsense," Emily replies. "We're setting this straight tonight. This has gone on long enough. You can't spend the entire summer bickering over...over whatever it is you're bickering over. And really, who wants to live with their grandparents?" 

"I don't mind," Dawn says. 

I remain quiet. I'm not sure I could live with Gran very long. 

The door opens and Stacey stands inside the foyer, grinning. "Hey!" she exclaims and then her grin drops momentarily when she spots Dawn standing behind Julie. Stacey recovers without missing a beat, but there's worry flickering in her eyes. "Hey everyone! Come on in!" Stacey cries and steps back, holding the door open. 

"Look who we found," Emily says, leading the way into Stacey's house. "We invited her along. I hope that's okay. My mother says she's sorry but she doesn't have any garlic. Don't worry, we picked some up at the A&P along with the sodas." 

"Thanks," Stacey says and shuts the door behind Dawn, the last one inside the house. "We only have diet. Mary Anne and I forgot to buy anything else. Um...hi, Dawn. How are you?" 

"I'm fine," Dawn answers and folds her arms over her chest. She glances around, searching for Mary Anne. 

"Mary Anne's in the kitchen," Stacey says, as if reading Dawn's thoughts. "Um...let me...I'll be right back." Stacey turns and rushes out of the foyer and through the living room and dining room. 

"Are we just supposed to stand here?" Julie asks, shifting the grocery sack in her arms. 

"We'll give them a minute," I tell her and go into the living room where I lean back against the couch. I reach my arm over the side and scratch Stacey's cat's head. He's curled up asleep on one of the cushions. Stacey really needs to put him on a diet. I don't know how the cat isn't dead yet. 

Stacey reappears from the dining room with Mary Anne behind her. Neither of them are smiling, their expressions unreadable. They stop and stand together, side by side, facing the rest of us. Stacey finally smiles, the corners of her mouth turning upward slightly. "We're almost ready," she announces. 

Emily, Julie, and I don't reply. We're waiting for Mary Anne or Dawn to speak. 

Dawn breaks the silence first. "Hey, Mary Anne," she says, casually, arms still folded. It's strange how her usual self-confidence abandons her so readily. 

"Hi, Dawn," Mary Anne replies, stiffly. She has her arms straight at her sides, appearing very formal and awkward. Maybe she feels it because she slips her hands into the front pockets of her jean shorts. "How are you? How are your grandparents?" 

"We're all fine," Dawn answers. "How are things at the McGills?" 

"Great." 

Another uncomfortable silence sinks around us until Emily crashes through it and announces, "I'm thirsty!" and charges through the living room, right between Stacey and Mary Anne and waves her arm for us to follow her. Sometimes Emily's pushiness is a blessing. 

Emily's first through the kitchen door with Julie and I right behind her. The three of us freeze in place the moment we're inside the kitchen, causing Dawn and Stacey to bump into us. Mrs. McGill's standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot and beside her is Mallory Pike. I groan, inwardly. I should have known. Mallory Pike pops up everywhere. Stacey feels some kind of obligation toward her because she and Mallory and Mary Anne were in the same baby-sitting club in middle school. Mary Anne pretends, but I know she doesn't feel the same way toward Mallory that Stacey does. Maybe it has something to do with, too, that Stacey's and Mallory's mothers used to be best friends. They aren't friends anymore. Stacey isn't sure why, but I think I know - Mrs. McGill wised up. There must be _something_ wrong with Mrs. Pike. She raised Mallory after all. 

"Mallory came over to borrow a pair of sandals, so I invited her to stay," Stacey tells us, cheerfully. She knows how Emily, Julie, and I feel about Mallory. Julie tolerates Mallory best of all. Julie can tolerate most anyone. 

Mallory turns around and regards us, leaning back with her palms against the countertop. Her red-orange hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail and she's wearing a skimpy green floral-print sundress. Mallory typically looks vaguely skanky. She'll be pregnant soon, I'm sure. "Hello," Mallory greets us, coolly. She raises an eyebrow. "Hello, Dawn," she says and glances over, questioningly, at Stacey and Mary Anne. 

"Hey, Mal," Dawn replies and the rest of us echo a hello after her. 

Mrs. McGill turns around, smiling at us, and sets her spoon on the spoon rest. "Hi, girls. I hope you're hungry. Stacey and Mary Anne have been working hard on dinner. I've been supervising, so it's safe to eat." 

"Thanks, Mom," Stacey says with a touch of crabbiness in her voice. She and Mrs. McGill don't always get along. Stacey claims Mrs. McGill nags her too often. I agree that Mrs. McGill is a bit clingy and overprotective and I'd never want _my_ mother to be like that, but Mrs. McGill isn't so bad. She could be much worse. She could be Mrs. Bernstein. 

"And it's really nice to see you again, Dawn," Mrs. McGill says, wiping her hands on a dishtowel and crossing the kitchen to where Dawn stands. She puts an arm around Dawn and squeezes her arm. "I haven't seen you since last summer at least. It's nice to see all of you again. Stacey and I are both so busy these days, it seems none of you are ever here." 

"We'd probably come more often if you kept better food in the house," Julie tells her. 

"Julie!" Stacey exclaims and Mrs. McGill looks surprised, but doesn't say anything. 

Julie acts like Stacey didn't protest and goes to stand beside Mallory at the stove. "What are we having for dinner?" she asks. 

"Pasta with marinara sauce," Mary Anne answers and joins Julie and Mallory at the stove. She glances over her shoulder, briefly, back at Dawn. It's impossible to tell what she's thinking. "We're making garlic cheese bread, too. That's why we needed the garlic. We used all of ours in the sauce. We made dessert, too. It's a surprise though." 

"You're in luck, Dawn," I say, lightly. "No red meat." 

Everyone laughs, sort of uncomfortably. Even Mary Anne may chuckle. Her back is to me and I can't tell. 

"We would have made meat sauce," Mary Anne says, more into the pot than to any of us, "but Emily can't eat meat and dairy together." 

I get the feeling Mary Anne's now disappointed about this. 

Dawn senses this, too. I can see it in her face. 

"What would everyone like to drink?" Stacey asks, jumping in. She and Mrs. McGill begin pulling glasses out of the cabinet and filling them with ice. Meanwhile, Mary Anne starts dicing the garlic gloves on the cutting board and beside her, Mallory grates the cheese for the bread. I'm uncertain how I feel about Mallory Pike preparing my food. Hopefully, anything she may carry will be neutralized in the oven. 

Emily, Julie, Dawn and I sit down at the table while the others bustle around, finishing last minute tasks. The plates and silverware have already been set out on the dining room table, so there isn't much left to do. We chat for awhile with Stacey and Mrs. McGill joining in every so often. Mary Anne doesn't say much and neither does Mallory. Mary Anne's just slid the bread into the oven when the telephone rings. 

"Hey, Emily," I say to her, "I think your dad's calling for you to come home and fill out your Wellesley application." 

"He is not," she snaps back. "He wouldn't do that. Besides, he'd never call here. He doesn't like to use the telephone unless he's calling relatives or the Sterns." 

Mr. Bernstein is such a freak. 

"That's for me," Mrs. McGill announces, untying her apron. "I'll take it in the den," she says and rushes out of the kitchen. 

"She's in a hurry," I observe. 

Stacey glances up from the bowl she's pouring the farfalle pasta into. "Yes," Stacey agrees. "I think something's going on at work. She's there all the time. I hope...I hope she's not going to lose her job or something." Stacey frowns and returns her attention to the pasta. 

"I don't think so," Mary Anne says, tipping the marinara sauce into the bowl that Mallory's holding. 

"Yes, why would they fire your mother?" I ask. "She has actual taste. She knows what she's doing. I've seen some of those people she works with. They should be fired based on what they wear to work." 

Stacey smiles and walks out of the kitchen with the pasta. Mary Anne and Mallory follow behind her. 

When they leave, Julie says, "I think we all know who Mrs. McGill's on the phone with right now." Julie raises her eyebrows up and down. 

"Oh, shut up," I reply and toss a wadded up napkin at her. 

"I won't even ask," Dawn says, "but I am wondering, Emily, how your father calls customers. Doesn't he ever have to do that?" 

"Sometimes. Usually my mother does it though." 

"Your dad's weird, Emily," I inform her. It's the truth and she must already know. 

"He is not. He's - " Emily begins, irritably, but Stacey interrupts by flying back into the kitchen and announcing, "We're ready!" 

The four of us pick up our glasses and follow Stacey into the dining room. Mary Anne and Mallory are already seated at the dining table. Stacey slides into the chair at the head of the table to Mary Anne's left. Interestingly enough, Dawn pulls out the chair directly across from Mary Anne. I end up next to Dawn, between her and Mallory, which is not my ideal placement. Mallory reeks of cigarettes. Emily and Julie sit on the opposite side with Mary Anne. 

"Are we supposed to wait for your mother?" I ask Stacey. 

Stacey looks over her shoulder toward the den. The door is shut, but we can hear Mrs. McGill laughing on the other side. "No," Stacey replies. "She'll be on the phone for a while, I think. She promised to stay in the kitchen anyway. Good thing, too, because I'm sort of upset with her. We had an argument this morning and she hasn't apologized, even though it was completely her fault." 

"What was the argument about?" Julie asks, scooping the farfalle noodles onto her plate. 

"Something stupid. She got mad because I forgot to unload the dishwasher last night. She's so testy sometimes. I don't know what's wrong with her. Do you think she's pre-menopausal?" 

"How old is she?" I ask. 

"Forty-two." 

"Maybe so," I say and take the bowl of pasta from Mallory. "Or maybe she's just upset that you didn't unload the dishwasher." 

"Well, she didn't have to get so worked up about it," Stacey replies and tightens the band at the end of her french braid. She brushes several bread crumbs off the front of her red tank top. "She can be so ridiculous sometimes. You know how it is." Stacey rolls her eyes. 

I shrug and spear several noodles with my fork. I take a bite and fight the urge to spit it back out. "This is really garlic-y," I say when I've managed to swallow. 

Across the table, Emily and Julie have just put forkfuls of pasta into their mouths. They wear identical, peculiar expressions on their faces, but turn them up with smiles while they chew. 

"Really garlic-y," Julie agrees with a forced smile. 

Stacey's eyes widen. "Is there too much garlic?" she asks, worriedly. 

"I like it," Dawn says and takes a heaping bite. 

"So do I," Mallory echoes. 

"Well, when you live in a zoo, I suppose you're used to eating anything," I tell her and then pause before adding, "But this is really good," and shove down another bite. Mrs. McGill was obviously not paying close enough attention. 

Stacey and Mary Anne share a smile and continue eating. After a couple minutes, Stacey stands, picking her glass up off the table. "I'm getting another diet soda, does anyone else need anything?" 

"More root beer," Julie and Emily say together. It creeps me out when they do that. 

"Can I have some more ginger ale?" Dawn asks. 

"Sure," Stacey says. 

"I'll help you, Stace," Mary Anne offers, rising from the table. She takes Emily and Julie's outstretched glasses, but ignores Dawn's. 

When Stacey and Mary Anne vanish into the kitchen, Julie drops her fork and hisses, "Emily, what was your mother making for dinner tonight?" 

"I don't know. I could call and ask her. Is Mrs. McGill off the phone yet?" 

I cock my head to the side and listen. Faintly, I hear Mrs. McGill's voice. "No," I tell them. "But when she gets off, go call." 

"I don't know what you're all complaining about," Dawn says, polishing off the rest of her pasta. "This is great." 

"Here you go then," I tell her, tilting my plate over hers and scraping my pasta onto it. 

"Mine, too!" Emily cries, thrusting her plate across the table. I switch it with mine and have half of Emily's pasta on Dawn's plate when Stacey and Mary Anne return from the kitchen. I scowl down at the plate when I realize that now I have to pretend to enjoy the rest while Emily has a clean plate. I turn my scowl on her and she smiles. 

"Grace, Julie, and Emily hate your food," Mallory informs Stacey and Mary Anne. 

Their faces fall. Mary Anne appears absolutely crushed. 

"Ow!" Mallory screams. "That's my foot!" 

Julie smirks at her. 

"We do _not_ hate it," Emily insists and lifts her plate. "See, I ate all of mine and Grace is nearly done with hers." 

"You are such a liar, Emily Bernstein!" Mallory exclaims, reaching down to rub her foot. "What kind of a Jew are you, lying to your friends like that? You scraped your food onto Dawn's plate!" 

"I did not!" 

"She did not," Dawn agrees, stabbing her fork into the pasta. She sips her ginger ale before taking the bite. 

Mary Anne glares at Dawn. "Well, now we know you're all lying!" Mary Anne cries. 

"When have I ever lied to you?" Dawn asks. 

Mary Anne doesn't answer. She pulls on one of her loose pigtails and stares down at her half-eaten dinner. 

"I've never lied to you," Dawn tells her. 

"No, but you know what you did," Mary Anne replies, angrily. 

"That? That is so stupid, Mary Anne! I didn't _do_ anything to you! Stop blaming me! Blame my mother, blame your father, blame yourself! I'm not even involved in this!" 

"Yes, you are. It's all about you. It's always all about Dawn," Mary Anne snaps and jumps out of her chair so fast, the chair falls over. Mary Anne storms out of the dining room, shoving through the door into the kitchen. It swings behind her and stills. 

We sit silently, the seconds ticking past audibly from the clock on the wall above our heads. Finally, Stacey pushes back her chair and wordlessly follows after Mary Anne. The door hasn't even swung closed yet when Emily also stands. "This is all my fault," she says and hurries around the side of the table and through the kitchen door. 

Dawn stands next. She doesn't speak to Julie, Mallory, or I. She stands and steps away from the table and goes into the kitchen. As the door closes behind her, we hear her say, "Mary Anne, I want to talk to you." 

I whirl around to face Mallory. "What's wrong with you?" I demand. "Why are you even here? Shouldn't you be out getting impregnated by Ben Hobart?" 

Mallory glares at me. "You should have just eaten the damn food, you stuck up bitch," she snaps. "I'm sorry it's not caviar and truffles." 

"You're the one who started this!" I cry, voice rising. "We were pretending to like it! They never would have known! You just had to open your big fat mouth, didn't you? Instead of your foot, stick to inserting parts of Ben Hobart's anatomy in there!" 

Across the table, Julie snorts. 

"How Christian of you," Mallory replies and then flings her plate of pasta in my face. 

Julie gasps. 

I am stunned. 

The warm sauce slides down my face and neck, dripping onto my green sleeveless blouse and down the gap between my breasts. Several farfalle noodles have slipped there, too, and gathered with the sauce in my hair. I wipe the sauce from my brow with the back of my hand. 

"Ah..." I say with a sigh and pick up my plate and dump it in Mallory's lap. 

"Dammit!" Mallory shrieks, jumping up. "That's hot!" 

"Certainly that's not the only burning sensation you've felt down there," I reply, calmly, and begin picking the noodles out of my hair. 

Mallory reaches out and yanks my hair. She grips it hard as I yelp, tugging me up from my chair. "Let go!" I shout, flailing my arms at her and the next thing I know, Julie's crawling across the table, yelling at Mallory and lunging for her. Julie misses. She tumbles off the table and lands on her side at my feet. I trip over her and go down with Mallory's death grip still on my hair, twisting it and pulling it. Mallory comes down, too, and the three of us are on the ground, in a hair pulling tangle when the kitchen door swings open again and the others charge out in a line. 

Dawn and Mary Anne are arguing. 

They stop when they see us. 

"What's going on?" Stacey demands. 

Mallory releases my hair. I release Julie's ponytail, which I thought belonged to Mallory. 

I sit up and run my fingers back through my hair. "There's nothing going on," I reply. 

Mary Anne spins around to face Dawn. "See what you've started?" she exclaims. 

"_Me_?" Dawn squeaks. "How can you blame me for _this_? You know what? I'm done. I'm calling Granny and Pop-Pop." Dawn starts to walk away. 

"Yes! Yes!" Mary Anne calls after her. "Run away! That's all you ever do! Run away and leave the mess behind!" 

Dawn freezes in mid-step. She remains frozen, frozen like the time and air around us. 

"Run away!" Mary Anne repeats, loud and furious. 

Mrs. McGill appears in the doorway. "Girls!" she exclaims, surveying the scene. "_What_ is going on in here?" 

No one answers. 

Dawn walks away and slips past Mrs. McGill in the doorway. Her Birkenstocks sound her retreat, smacking dully against the living room carpet and then louder against the foyer tile. The den door closes. 

"Well?" Mrs. McGill asks, hands on her hips. 

"Nothing's going on, Mom," Stacey lies. 

Mrs. McGill looks at Stacey, critically, doubtfully and moves her eyes across Emily and Mary Anne, and then down to the floor where Julie, Mallory, and I still sit. She stares at us. "Mallory Pike! Grace Blume! Julie Stern!" she cries. "What have you been doing?" 

"Just enjoying this delicious meal," Julie answers. 

Mrs. McGill stares at us a moment longer. "Mallory..." she finally speaks, calm and serious, "why don't you go home now? In fact, I think it's best that everyone goes home." 

I rise to my feet, shaking back my hair. My insides grow warm. I can't believe Mrs. McGill is tossing us out of her home. I remain unruffled. I offer a hand to Julie and help pull her to her feet. I leave Mallory alone on the floor. It's up to her to bring herself up again. 

"Of course, Mrs. McGill," I say, pleasantly. "We're very sorry." 

At the front of the house, the den door creaks open, followed by the front door. It shuts quietly. Dawn has left. 

"Where is Dawn going?" Mrs. McGill wants to know. 

"She called her grandparents," Stacey replies. 

Mrs. McGill nods and glances around again. "Please clean up this mess, girls," she tells us and then pushes through the door into the kitchen. 

I don't know when I was last so embarrassed. 

"Why don't you just go home, Mal?" Stacey suggests. 

Mallory doesn't look at us. She simply leaves, slipping through the kitchen door without a word. I hope we are done with her now. I hope Stacey is done. Done like Dawn, fed up and final. 

I crouch down and begin picking the noodles off the carpet. Julie and Emily join me. Stacey and Mary Anne remain in place where they are, not speaking, not moving. I wonder what passes silently between them. They speak, like Emily and Julie, without words. 

Mary Anne begins toward the doorway to the living room. She begins and halts. She stands there several moments, underneath the ticking of the clock, stands and stares through the archway at the front door. The moments drag on at a near stop and finally, Mary Anne turns back around and goes into the kitchen. We hear her voice mixing with Mrs. McGill's as the door swings shut. 

"We're sorry," I tell Stacey. 

Julie nods. "We are," she agrees. "But that crazy Mallory Pike started it." 

"Mallory is my friend, too," Stacey replies. She isn't angry. Her words are simple, spoken as the honest truth. "But I understand." 

Dawn is gone when Emily, Julie, and I go out the front door. We assume her grandparents came for her. We circle the neighborhood twice in Emily's Toyota, but we never see her, so we turn back around and head to Emily's house. 

"I feel really bad," Emily says when she pulls up to the curb outside her house. 

"What happened in the kitchen?" I ask. 

"Not much," she answers. "Nothing much that made any sense anyway. I suppose Dawn and Mary Anne know what they're talking about, but it sounds like gibberish to me." 

"You know what?" Julie says, unlatching her seatbelt. "I don't think either of them has any idea why they're mad at each other. They're just mad." 

"Maybe," I agree and open the car door and step out into the warm June air. 

"Do you want to come in?" Emily asks me when she's also out of the car. She shuts her door. "We can see what my mother made for dinner. " 

I shake my head. "No thanks," I say and begin walking to my Corvette, searching through my purse for my keys. "I'll call you tomorrow." 

Emily and Julie wave goodbye and start up the walk to Emily's house. One of Emily's many cats is on the path and rolls over as they approach. Emily scoops it up and carries it inside. The door closes behind them as I turn over my car. 

My parents are home when I pull into the garage. I feel the hood of their Lexus as I pass by. It's cool. They've been home awhile. I come into the kitchen through the garage and toss my purse on the counter. The house is very quiet. Odd since when my parents are home, my mother's voice usually fills the house, loud and wanting to be heard. I open the refrigerator and pull out a pineapple soda, pop the tab, and take a sip, surveying the refrigerator contents for something good to eat. I settle on a granola bar from the pantry. 

"Is that Grace?" my mother's voice rings out from the living room. 

"No. It's a burglar," I call back. 

"Thanks for the warning!" 

I come out of the kitchen with my soda and granola bar. Mom and Dad are in the living room on the couch. Dad's stretched across the couch on his back, his head resting in Mom's lap. He's removed his jacket and tie. His glasses rest on the coffee table. Mom's massaging his temples with her fingers. 

Mom looks up at me when I enter. "What happened to you?" she asks. 

For a moment, I'm puzzled. Then I remember that although I wiped off my face and neck at Stacey's, there's still dried sauce on my shirt and in my hair. I sit down in the armchair opposite Mom and Dad. I cross my legs and hold my soda can on my right knee. "Mallory Pike threw pasta on me," I tell her. 

"Someone threw pasta on you?" Dad asks without opening his eyes. 

"Why is some girl throwing pasta on you?" Mom demands. 

I shrug. "Because she can't handle the truth that she's a whore," I answer. 

"Well, that explains it then," Mom replies. "Should I call her mother?" 

"No. Her mother may be even crazier than she is. What's wrong with Dad?" 

"Hal had a rough day at work," Mom explains, continuing to massage Dad's temples. "It's a very stressful time in his department. He's overworked. Alla is no help. He has to do everything himself. Alla is a moron. I've been saying it for years. She's worthless." 

"Alla isn't the problem," Dad replies. 

"Shh..." Mom says, softly, covering his mouth with her hand. "You need peace and quiet." She bends down and kisses his forehead. Still massaging, she looks over at me and smiles. "What did you do today?" she asks in a voice barely above a whisper. Rarely does she speak so softly. "I called this afternoon but you didn't answer." 

"I've been out all day. I went to Gran's and Emily's and Stacey's." 

"A busy day. You went to my mother's again? What can you possibly be doing over there?" 

I shrug. "She's helping me with my summer reading, remember? But we didn't do that today. She wasn't feeling well." 

"Again? What the hell is wrong with her?" 

"I don't know," I answer with another shrug. "She's like that sometimes." 

"I know exactly what she's like," Mom says and looks away from me and down at Dad. "Is that better, Hal?" she asks him. 

"Infinitely, my dear." 

Mom smiles down at him. "Would you like me to fix you a drink?" she asks. 

"Not now." 

Mom lays her left hand on Dad's chest and with the other, strokes his head, slowly and fondly, smiling down at him. It feels like when I am with Emily and Julie or Stacey and Mary Anne and they enter their own world, wrapped up in each other and their private jokes and moments, and I remain on the outside, on the other side of the glass, peering in. 

"You can't possibly sit around reading all the time," Mom says to me. "I know you, Grace. You don't like reading. What is it you're doing there? Is your grandmother filling your head with all sorts of nonsense?" 

"No." 

Mom's silent a moment, staring down at Dad. "Is she telling you things about me?" 

"No. Not really," I reply. "Sometimes I watch her garden and sometimes we play tennis. We watch _General Hospital_. Gran listens well. She gives reasonable advice." 

Mom snorts. "Really? I don't recall her ever giving me any advice. No, that's not true. She once told me I have an overlarge forehead. Oh, wait, that wasn't advice. That was just an insult." 

"Gran said you have an overlarge forehead?" I ask and raise an eyebrow. I study Mom. Her forehead _is_ a bit high. Self-consciously, I touch my own. 

"I like your forehead," Dad says to Mom. "It's one of your most attractive features. After your hair and your eyes. And your legs." 

"And my ass and my breasts." 

"You have lovely hands, too." 

"Well, as long as my enormous forehead cracks the top ten," Mom says, lightly, and smiles. Her eyes don't match the smile. 

"She's never said anything about your forehead to me," I tell Mom and it's the truth. "Today, she said that you're very lovely." That is also the truth. 

Mom eyes me suspiciously. "I'm sure there was an insult hidden in there somewhere," she says. 

"I don't think so," I reply and know that's a lie. It doesn't matter. I know Mom likely doesn't believe me anyway. "Also today, Gran told me about when you were born." 

Mom looks over, startled. "She did?" Mom asks, surprised. "What did she tell you?" 

"About choosing your name." 

"Oh..." Mom says and her face relaxes. "My mother certainly has become chatty in her old age. I think she says more to you in a single day than she's said to me in my entire life." 

I watch Mom a moment, considering her reaction. I let it pass. "She said your father wanted to name you Vivian. She said she had already chosen Fay." 

Mom snorts again. "If there's anything in this life I can thank my mother for, it's for giving me a decent name. Vivian! How awful. I can't believe my name _isn't_ Vivian. I credit the drugs. Your grandmother must have been heavily doped up to be so insistent about my name. Had she been in her usual state of mind, we'd all be named Vivian." 

"I like Vivian," Dad says. 

"I don't," Mom replies. 

"Who chose my name?" I ask. I've never thought to wonder, let alone ask. My parents rarely speak of when my mother was pregnant or when I was born or when I was a baby. My past is sketchy like theirs, bits and pieces dropped into the open, a million others hidden away, and unspoken. 

"Your name?" Mom says and glances down at Dad. "Hmm...do you remember, Hal? I think we chose it together." 

"We did," Dad agrees. 

"Yes," Mom says with a nod. She turns back to me. "We bought a name book and went through it together and circled all the names we liked. I don't remember the other ones. Do you, Hal?" 

"Morgan." 

I wrinkle my nose. 

Mom laughs. "It's a perfectly fine name! Your father wanted to name you Fiona after the company. He thought it might get him another promotion." 

"Thank you for not naming me Fiona," I reply and twist the tab on my soda can. "Did you buy the book together?" 

"I guess so. Probably. Why?" 

I shrug. "No reason," I say, even though it suddenly seems very important knowing that they went out together to purchase the book and then sat together on the couch in their apartment, turning the pages, reading names aloud and circling the ones they liked, marking out the ones they did not. If she made that kind of effort, Mom couldn't have been so upset about me anymore. 

Mom smiles at me, then turns her attention to Dad. She bends down and kisses his forehead. "How is your head?" she asks him. 

"Better. Thank you, my dear," he says and takes her left wrist and presses his lips to it. 

In the morning, when I wake, there's a Post-It note stuck to my forehead. I lift it off and turn it over. Written in my mother's handwriting is: _Vanessa!_


	12. Chapter 12

I return to Gran's on Friday in the late morning. I intended to stay away for a couple days, give her some space, let the mood pass, but she called this morning and invited me over. She sounded cheery and warm, like her usual self, and so I agreed to come. When I turn onto Bertrand Drive, Gran's standing on the sidewalk outside her house talking to Mrs. Porter. I already know, simply from down the road, that Gran's mood has indeed improved. Her hands are casually placed on her hips and her head's bent backward in laughter at something Mrs. Porter has said. When I pull into the drive, Gran raises an arm in the air and waves, smiling at me. 

She is perplexing. 

"Hello, dear!" she calls when I step out of my Corvette. She flashes another smile and tosses her carrot-red hair over her shoulder. Her cheeks are flushed with their natural rose hue, giving her a cheerful, delighted appearance. 

"Hello, Gran. Hello, Mrs. Porter," I reply, swinging my purse over my shoulder, and striding over to join them. 

"Hello, Grace," Mrs. Porter says in return and brushes a lock of stray white hair from her face. "Dawn isn't around right now," she tells me, as if I were wondering. "She and Jeff went to the movies. She'll be back later. It's been very nice of you and your friends to include her lately. She has missed being with girls her age." 

"Oh...well...Gran insists," I say. 

Mrs. Porter looks at me strangely and then redirects her attention to Gran. "I'll see you later, Allison. Come over when you're free. You can have a look at my camellias." Mrs. Porter looks back at me. "Have a nice afternoon, Grace." 

"You too, Mrs. Porter." 

"Goodbye, Rita," Gran says, merrily, and starts across the front lawn, as Mrs. Porter heads back to her side of the street. Gran walks very briskly, slipping her hands into the pockets of her navy-colored slacks. "I am not happy with you," she informs me, lightly. She doesn't sound unhappy at all. 

"What?" I ask her. 

"You've been gossiping about me to your parents," she says, opening the front door. 

"What are you talking about?" 

Gran shuts the door and returns her hands to her pockets and starts out of the foyer toward the kitchen with a small kick in her step. "Harold called this morning," she explains. "He wanted to know if I'm sick. Whatever have you been telling them?" 

I raise an eyebrow at her back. Dad called her? That is...a surprise. Mom would throw one of her fits if she knew. "I told them you hadn't felt well," I reply, following her into the kitchen. "You had all those headaches and you didn't look well yesterday at all. I was worried." 

Gran pulls open the refrigerator door and glances over her shoulder and smiles. "There's no need to worry, dear. I am perfectly fine, as you can see. Would you like some iced tea?" she asks and holds up the jug. 

"Okay," I say and take a seat at the table. I watch Gran retrieve two glasses from the cabinet and fill them with ice. "So...what did you tell Dad?" 

"The truth, of course. I'm not sick and there's nothing to be concerned over. I'm seventy-two years old and don't always feel my very best. It isn't reason for anyone to work themselves into a bother. Harold understood." 

I sip the iced tea Gran's just set in front of me. It's true. She _is_ seventy-two years old. Of course she gets tired. I forget because she looks and acts younger so much of the time. 

Gran sits down across from me and pours a sugar packet into her iced tea. "I am looking forward to getting back to our reading today," she tells me. "Although, I promised Rita that I would come over at some point to check out a problem with her garden. You and I can breeze through a few chapters, though, I'm sure." 

"Great," I say, unenthusiastically. 

Gran misses my lack of pep and smiles again. 

"You should have been a teacher," I tell her. 

Gran laughs. "Heavens, no!" she cries. "I would have been terrible! Children are trying. They demand too much. Plus, they are so noisy." 

"You have a lot of patience though," I point out. 

"I learned at a young age to put up with anything," Gran replies, "but that wouldn't make me a good teacher. No, teaching wasn't anything I ever wanted to do." 

"Then what did you want to do?" I ask. "If you had graduated from Smith?" 

Gran shrugs. "I don't know. Something more exciting than getting married and moving to this town," Gran says and shrugs again. "What does it matter now? That was over fifty years ago. What I wanted doesn't matter now. It barely mattered then." Gran tosses her hair back and takes a long sip of iced tea. 

I watch her, tracing my finger around the rim of the glass. Sometimes talking to her is exactly like talking to my mother with all these little things left unsaid, things I think she would like to tell me, creeping along the edges of her words, hidden meanings that are skirted. It is frustrating and confusing and I worry how much I should push, how far they will give before they shut me out. 

"Yesterday," I start, "we were talking about Mom's name. Remember?" 

"Of course I remember. It was yesterday. I'm not senile." 

"I know. Well, I asked my parents about my name and what else they thought of naming me. I was wondering, what do you remember about when my mother was pregnant with me?" 

Gran stares at me, blankly, for a moment. "What do I remember?' she repeats. 

"Yes," I say, still tracing the rim of the glass. "Was she happy?" 

"Was she happy?" Gran echoes and continues that blank stare. "Of course. She was thrilled," Gran says and then laughs. "Your parents were very excited," she says and raises her glass to her lips. 

I don't speak right away. I study her. I know she's lying. She's sparing my feelings. I wish she would tell the truth, so I could speak about it to someone. But I won't tip my hand. I won't let her know I know. 

"Do you remember when I was born? Were you there?" 

"I remember when you were born. Harold called and woke me up in the middle of the night. But no, I wasn't there. You were born in New York and I lived here. Was I supposed to drive all the way into Manhattan in the dead of night to sit around a waiting room, reading old magazines? No, I wasn't there. I saw you a few weeks later though when your parents brought you for a visit. You were a lovely baby and I was very pleased that they didn't name you Hillary." 

Hillary? I wrinkle my nose. That's even worse than Morgan. 

"Who named you?" I ask Gran. She seldom talks about her own parents. She is like my father in that way. "Allison is a beautiful name. It suits you." 

"Thank you," Gran says with a smile. "I have always liked my name. And I very much liked being Allison Macintosh. I thought I would be Allison Macintosh forever. But no, I don't know who chose my name. I assume my mother did. I never asked her." 

"What was your mother like?" 

Gran sips her iced tea and shrugs. "She was my mother," Gran answers, as if that is any sort of answer at all. "I didn't see her very often. I rarely saw either of my parents. I spent most of the year at Miss Kingston's and came home for holidays, but usually, my parents were busy with parties and other commitments. Then, of course, in the summer, they left me with my grandmother while they journeyed throughout the United Kingdom, having a fabulous time by themselves, and I sat in my bedroom and read." Gran stands and returns to the refrigerator for the iced tea jug. She pours more for herself and for me. "I've never known a girl who asks so many questions," she says. 

"No one ever talks about these things," I tell her. 

"These things aren't important. What do they matter now?" Gran asks, sliding back onto her chair. She begins picking lint off her sky blue shirt, although I don't see anything there. 

These things matter to my mother. She's angry about something. Or about a lot of little things that piled up. 

"My parents were Ronan and Margaret," Gran says, still brushing invisible lint from her shirt. "In case you were wondering. I didn't name Margolo after my mother though. That was a coincidence. No one believed me. It irritated Ian. He thought I did it simply to aggravate him. I didn't. Margolo was the name I liked and it was the name I chose. I deserved to choose something in my life. Ian never forgave me and he never let me forget that he didn't forgive me." Gran stands again and crosses to the fruit bowl on the counter. She picks up a banana. "Are you hungry? I'll make a fruit salad." 

I watch Gran move back across the kitchen to the refrigerator where she removes a half of cantaloupe and a honeydew melon, along with a kiwi and a mango. She slices into the honeydew melon and peels the rind off with a long, sharp knife. She does the same to the cantaloupe. I study her back, clad in shades of blue, her carrot-colored hair curled and tumbling onto her shoulders in soft waves. She shakes her hair back and brings the knife down quick and steady. 

She is perplexing. 

I decide to push a little farther. 

"You don't have many nice things to say about Grandfather," I observe, casually. 

Gran looks over her shoulder. "Oh?" she replies and her voice has cooled. "What have I said that isn't nice?" 

I think a moment. "Well...nothing specifically," I admit. "But you certainly don't have much to say about him period. And when you do say anything it...isn't exactly complimentary." 

"Ian's been dead for twenty years," Gran says, flatly, scooping the melon into a clear glass bowl. "That's a very long time. It's longer than you've been alive. Am I supposed to cry over him? There's no use in that or in drudging up old memories. He's dead. He's dead and I don't have to deal with him anymore. I don't have to because I can do anything I like now. The nicest thing he ever did for me was die. And that's all you need to know." 

Gran makes me speechless so often these days. She slips these little things in, these little things I would miss if I were only half-listening, she slips them in and continues on her way, as if nothing strangely truthful were said. 

"I'm sorry," I say to her. What exactly I am sorry for I am uncertain. It seems like the only thing there is to say. I am sorry for whatever it is she does not speak of. 

"Why are you sorry?" Gran asks, slicing into the mango. "You had nothing to do with it. It wasn't _your_ fault. Besides, so many years have passed. You like to drag things up that should be allowed to settle and stay. You are so much like your mother in that." Gran returns to the table and sets a bowl of fruit salad in front of me. "When we're finished reading, I'll make lunch for us. Unless you have other plans?" 

"No. I don't have plans," I answer, picking up my fork. I push it into a chunk of honeydew melon. 

"Lovely," Gran says with a smile, sitting down across from me and picking up her own fork. "I told Brigitta to not come so often. I've been waiting for her to retire for years. I can take care of myself and this house. I would feel bad, however, letting her go. Corinne thinks I'm crazy. She doesn't like the idea of me here alone so much." 

"I wish you got along with Mom the way you do with Aunt Corinne," I tell her. I've thought it very often, but have never spoken it aloud. I've thought it for a long time, for as long as I can remember, all the way back to when I was a little girl and Mom and Gran would have private arguments in the kitchen and the library, or not so private arguments at the dining room table over holiday meals. 

"Fay and Corinne are different people," Gran replies and leaves it at that. 

When we finish our fruit salad, Gran insists on going into the library. I'm anxious for this book to be over. I understand what's going on now that Gran explains it, but I am not interested at all. Gran and I sit together on the couch with Gran's body angled toward me, leaning back into the armrest. She looks so much more relaxed than the other day. It amazes me how quickly the change turns, how she returns to the Gran I am used to so smoothly, so fast. 

The telephone rings an hour into our reading. Gran glances up in surprise and checks the silver and diamond wristwatch on her left wrist. "Who is calling me?" she wonders aloud. "You're already here." She snaps her fingers. "It's probably Rita," she says and rises from the couch, crossing to the desk, where she lifts the receiver from the cradle. "Hello? Allison McCracken," she says, breezily into the receiver. She listens a moment and appears slightly confused. "Just a minute please," she says and covers the receiver. She holds it out to me. "Perhaps, you are coming too often. Your friends are calling here now." 

I raise an eyebrow and cross the room, taking the phone from Gran. "Hello?" 

"This is Emily." 

"Emily? How did you know I was here?" 

"Well, you weren't at your house and you weren't at Mari's. Process of elimination. You hang around your grandmother too much. Isn't it boring? What are you doing?" 

"I'm..." I realize I can't tell her the truth. If she and Julie knew, I would be so embarrassed. "We're making lunch. How did you get this number?" 

"I'm at the pharmacy. I looked your grandmother up on the computer." 

"Are you allowed to do that?" 

"Probably not," Emily answers. "So, what are you doing this afternoon? Julie and I want to do something. Paul told Julie that the Rosebud Cafe just came out with this new dessert. It's like chocolate cake filled with chocolate fudge and covered with chocolate frosting and candied cherries. It sounds disgusting and of course, Julie wants some. Do you want to go later?" 

"Sure. When I finish here." 

"I have to be back at the pharmacy by four because it's Friday and we're going to Stamford for the night. Do you want to meet at the pharmacy around two-thirty? Julie will be here at two." 

I check my watch. It's one o' clock now. "Two-thirty is fine." 

"You're so agreeable today," Emily informs me. "I should probably go now. I hear my parents moving around in the office. Mom and I are going to Sew Fine to choose the fabric for my new curtains." 

I fake gasp. "Your parents are at the pharmacy _together_?" 

There's a short pause. "Yes," Emily replies a bit tightly. "My father told my mother he missed her yesterday." 

Oh. Right. "Did he have to make all the phone calls himself?" 

"No!" Emily protests, perhaps a bit too insistently. "And I think you should invite Dawn along," she tells me, plowing past what I said. "I feel really bad about last night. I insisted on bringing her. I thought she and Mary Anne would work things out. I bet they would have if not for that nasty Mallory Pike. When I'm the _Gazette_ editor this next year, I'm getting back at her." 

"Stick her on the sports page," I suggest. 

"Good idea! Oh, I need to go. Mom's standing next to me, staring. I guess she's ready to leave. I'll see you at two-thirty." Emily hangs up before I can reply. 

"I'm meeting my friends at two-thirty," I tell Gran as I replace the receiver in its cradle. 

Surprisingly, for a brief moment, there's a hint of disappointment crossing Gran's face. It evaporates. She smiles and slides her hands into her pockets. "Oh, well, I'll go over to Rita's then when you leave. Do you still want lunch? We can read two more chapters and then I'll make something for us." 

"Yes. I'd like that," I reply. I won't disappoint her further by saying no. I'm actually sort of flattered that she wishes for me to stay longer. Sometimes I wonder how much she enjoys my company. She's so insistent on how much she prefers to be alone. "Um...I need to make a phone call," I say and hesitate. "What...what's Mrs. Porter's phone number?" 

Gran doesn't make a big deal of it. She comes around the side of the desk and removes her address book from a drawer. She reads the phone number to me and then returns to the couch, where she thumbs through the book while I wait for Dawn to come on the line. 

"We're going to the Rosebud with Emily and Julie at two-thirty," I inform her when she answers. 

There's a long pause. "Who is this?" she asks. 

"You know who this is. I heard your grandfather tell you I was on the phone." 

"You are really rude sometimes. I thought rich people had impeccable manners? Your parents should spend some of the money they make shilling underwear to send you to etiquette classes. Now what time are we meeting Emily and Julie and will you keep your food on your plate this time?" 

I move the receiver away from my face for a moment and glare at it. "Two-thirty and yes," I answer. "I'll come over for you around two-fifteen. We're meeting them at the Bernsteins' pharmacy. Prepare yourself." 

"I will," Dawn says and hangs up on me. 

Gran and I finish reading for the day and then go into the kitchen, where Gran begins pulling out the contents of her refrigerator. She offers to make tuna salad, but I think fish is disgusting. We agree on cold chicken breast sandwiches on croissants. Gran makes them with sliced avocado and grated mozzarella. I like when she cooks for me, even when it's simple. Gran spends most of lunch talking about her latest plans for her garden and Mrs. Porter's concerns about her own garden. I do my best to stay interested. 

After lunch, Gran and I walk across the street to the Porters. Dawn must be waiting by the door because she opens it as we're coming up the front steps. I sweep her with my eyes appraisingly. Today - gray pedalpushers and a forest green shirt from some restaurant and those hideous shoes of hers. She wears them to annoy me. I know because I would do the same. 

As Gran vanishes inside the Porters' house, Dawn and I walk down the steps and across the street to my car. When I've unlocked the doors and we're inside, Dawn says to me, "Your grandmother is quite chipper today." 

"Do you have a problem with that?" I ask, latching my belt. 

"Not at all. I just think she's strange. She must be sleeping better because I didn't see any lights on at two this morning. Is she on some kind of medication? That would explain a lot." 

My jaw tightens. "No, she's not on any medication," I say, testily, although I don't know for sure. I've never raided her medicine cabinet. "And if you continue to insult my grandmother, I'm kicking you out of this car." 

"I'm not insulting her," Dawn argues. "That wasn't my intention. She's perfectly nice. Just strange. My grandparents feel the same way. Please don't tell her that. I wouldn't want to hurt her feelings. Anyway, thank you for inviting me. After last night, I thought it would be back to hanging around the library and helping Erica Blumberg shelve children's fiction. I'm sorry about last night and what happened with Mary Anne and then me just leaving. I didn't think it would end like that, but I should have known." 

"That wasn't your fault. It was Mallory Pike's. She's a crazy bitch and Stacey needs to drop her as fast as possible." 

"I don't know what happened to Mal," Dawn says. "She used to be really sweet. Kind of dorky, but sweet." 

"Emily, Julie, and I have been working on a theory for awhile that her parents practice inbreeding. They're good looking people and that's really the only way to explain Mallory. That, or perhaps, genetic mutation," I tell her and make a right onto Forest Drive. "Okay...we're approaching downtown Stoneybrook." 

Dawn laughs. "Yes, we are." 

"Don't interrupt me. This is going somewhere," I inform her, easing onto the brake at the stop sign. "We're on our way to the Bernsteins pharmacy and they are, unfortunately, both there. Since you are likely going to meet him, it is time for part two of Conversations With Mr. Bernstein. Consider yourself lucky. This is the most important lesson and one that not many are privileged to receive beforehand." 

Dawn stays quiet a moment. "This does not sound promising," she says. "What's wrong with Mr. Bernstein?" 

I consider my words. "Mr. Bernstein," I tell her, "has a speech impediment. He stutters." 

Dawn looks over at me. "He stutters?" she repeats. "Isn't he a little old for that?" 

"That's what my mother says," I reply and turn onto Main Street. "Nevertheless, he stutters. It isn't all the time. Sometimes he doesn't stutter at all and carries on a completely normal conversation during which, of course, he stares at a piece of furniture the entire time. But sometimes, it's really bad. Just pretend you don't notice." 

"Okay," Dawn says, "but he didn't sound like he was having any problems the other day." 

"Oddly enough, he doesn't seem to stutter when they're fighting. It's rather bizarre. Of course, he doesn't seem to stutter when he talks to himself either. He does that a lot, too. Just so you know." 

"Maybe he should shout more often then." 

"Maybe so," I agree with a laugh, as I pull into a parking space outside the pharmacy between Emily's Toyota and Mrs. Bernstein's Buick. Julie's bicycle is chained to the bike rack. Dawn and I climb out of the Corvette and through the glass of the pharmacy's front door, I see Emily and Julie standing behind the counter, talking and laughing. I push through the door with Dawn behind me. 

"Hello, Grace and Dawn," Emily and Julie chorus together in that creepy way of theirs. 

"Hello," I reply and cross the pharmacy toward them. I lean forward against the counter and glance around. I don't see Emily's parents anywhere. "How was the fabric shopping?" I ask Emily. 

"Great. I found exactly what I wanted," Emily replies. She turns her attention to Dawn. "I'm sorry that I made you go to Stacey's last night," she apologizes. 

"It isn't your fault," Dawn tells her. "I wanted to go. You didn't make me." 

"Mary Anne will come around," Julie assures her. 

Dawn appears doubtful and I match her doubt with my own. Mary Anne's being strangely difficult. I don't know exactly what's going on between them, but I doubt it will be easily resolved. Not when Mary Anne's being so stubborn. 

"Are you ready to go?" I ask Emily and Julie. 

Emily shakes her head. "No. We're waiting for my father. My mother sent him to the bank because she didn't have any cash. She's in the office, if you're wondering." 

"We're watching the store," Julie explains, "but unfortunately, no freaks have come in yet." 

Dawn leans an elbow on the counter, so that she's partially facing all three of us. "There are freaks in Stoneybrook?" she asks. 

Emily and Julie laugh. "Oh, yeah," Julie replies and folds her arms on the counter. "Major freaks." 

"We can look up some of their prescriptions on the computer while we wait," Emily suggests and moves in front of the computer. She strikes one of the keys and asks, "Who do you want to know about?" 

"Stay off that computer!" Mrs. Bernstein bellows from the back of the pharmacy. The woman's ears are amazing. 

Emily frowns and steps away from the computer. "It's best to do it when just my father's here," she whispers so that Mrs. Bernstein can't possibly overhear. She raises her voice to its regular volume. "There's my father now," she announces. 

Dawn and I turn around. Mr. Bernstein's crossing Essex, coming toward the pharmacy with his head down, watching the ground and walking in his typical brisk stride. He's dressed in slacks and a short-sleeved plaid oxford shirt, which is the only thing he ever wears, even in the winter when it's snowing and Mrs. Bernstein's walking around in ten layers of clothes instead of her usual five. Mr. Bernstein doesn't look up at us when he pushes through the pharmacy door. He simply continues his fast paced walk toward the counter, eyes still trained on the ground. 

"Hello, Mr. Bernstein," Julie chirps at him and I follow it with my own, less enthused, "Hello, Mr. Bernstein." 

"Hello," Mr. Bernstein replies in such a whisper it was barely worth saying at all. Then he disappears into the back. 

"He's shy," Emily explains to Dawn. Her expression is unreadable. "He's a lot better than he used to be. He used to be much worse. He has good days and bad days." Emily pauses and glances over at Julie, then back to Dawn and I. "Plus, he was just at the bank and Mrs. Hoffman frightens him. Her breasts are always hanging out of her blouse and she's always trying to stroke his beard. He doesn't like that." 

"You don't have to explain," Julie tells her. 

From the back of the pharmacy, I hear Mrs. Bernstein's voice saying without tone, "If she bothers you that much, I won't make you go back there. I'll go to the bank from now on. Now, there's something wrong with the fax machine. You know how to fix it and I don't. Go on," and then Mrs. Bernstein appears between two rows of shelves wearing one of her attractive summertime sweater and mid-calf length skirt combos. Brown tweed and cream for today. Daring. "Hello, Miss Blume," she greets me and then looks over at Dawn. "Hello, Dawn. I don't have any cookies, so you're safe." Mrs. Bernstein turns her focus to Emily, sidling up to her. "Emily Elaine," she says, not so tonelessly now. Irritated. She fans out a stack of money. "Look at what that woman gave your father. All fives! Why would I want twenty five dollar bills?" she demands. 

"Did he ask for all fives?" Emily replies. 

"I don't know!" Mrs. Bernstein answers, sounding extremely agitated. She's straightening the bills, turning them all so they face the same direction. "He might have. Here. Just take it," she says and thrusts the money at Emily. "Cecily knows exactly what she's doing," Mrs. Bernstein informs Emily. "And I know what she's doing, too. Cecily knows what happens when your father gets flustered. It isn't funny and I won't stand for it any longer," and with that Mrs. Bernstein comes around the counter and marches across the pharmacy toward the front door. 

"I don't think you should!" Emily calls after her. 

Mrs. Bernstein doesn't reply. She shoves through the door and charges across the street. 

"Okay, who wants to go to the bank?" Julie asks. 

Emily rolls her eyes. 

Dawn glances over at me. "What is she going to do?" 

I shrug because I don't know for sure. My guess is that it will involve shouting and finger wagging. 

Mr. Bernstein appears from the back. He looks around for Mrs. Bernstein and then comes to stand near Emily and across the counter from me. His eyes shift from me to Dawn and settle on Emily, where they stay. He doesn't speak. 

"She went to kick Mrs. Hoffman's ass," Julie informs him, anticipating the question he intended to ask. 

Mr. Bernstein looks down at the counter and then turns and disappears back between the shelves, headed into the office. 

Emily bites her lip. She looks down at the counter like her father, gripping its edge and raising on her toes. "He doesn't know who you are," she explains to Dawn. "That's why he didn't say anything. He's still flustered. He isn't always like that." 

Dawn shrugs. "It isn't a big deal," she assures Emily. 

"Yeah, it's okay," Julie says, easily, and adjusts the strap of her jean bag on her shoulder. "I'll go tell him that we're leaving now." She also disappears into the back. 

While we're waiting for Julie to return, we don't speak. Emily continues biting her lip and studying the counter. I am thankful that things about my parents, things I do not wish to be known remain that way, secret and hidden. I wouldn't want their flaws and weaknesses on display for the world to see, creeping up at inconvenient times, slapping others in the faces. I feel bad for Emily, but I am glad I am not her. 


	13. Chapter 13

The Rosebud isn't crowded when we push through its doors. It will be in a few hours, though, because it's summer and a Friday. We take a booth near the front with Emily and Julie on one side - because they always sit together - and Dawn and I on the other. I glance around as the others open their menus, searching for Logan Bruno and hoping he's not working. A single meal served incompetently was more than enough. 

"See, this is it," Julie tells us, turning her menu around to show a laminated plastic insert. "Chocolate cake filled with creamy fudge and smothered in chocolate fudge frosting and topped with candied cherries, sliced almonds, and chocolate chocolate chip ice cream."

Dawn presses her right hand to her lower jaw. "Ow. I think I just got a cavity listening to that," she informs us.

"I think I just gained five pounds," I say and close my menu. I don't even want to consider how many crunches and laps it would take to burn off all those calories. "I'm having the peach pie."

"No sense of adventure," Julie sighs.

"I don't think I should eat this," Emily says, studying her menu. "We're eating dinner at five and Grandma Bernstein gets very testy if she suspects anyone's spoiled their appetite beforehand. Especially if it's me. She thinks my mother lets me snack too much." Emily closes her menu and sets it on the table. Every Friday night, the Bernsteins drive to Stamford to observe the Sabbath with Mr. Bernstein's family. Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein stay overnight, either with Mr. Bernstein's parents or one of his brothers. Sometimes Emily stays, sometimes she does not. The Bernsteins are much less strict on her than when we were kids. Emily has never explained the change.

"We can share," Julie offers. "I don't mind."

"Okay," Emily says with a nod. "What are you getting, Dawn?"

"Not the sugar stroke on a platter, that's for sure," she answers without glancing up from her menu.

"There's no such thing as a sugar stroke," I point out.

"There will be after Emily and Julie eat that mountain of calories and processed sugar."

"Oh, you're one of _those_ people," Julie says, flatly.

"And exactly what people would that be?" Dawn inquires.

"The kind of people who read aloud the nutrition label on a candy bar to shame you into not eating it," Julie answers.

"I don't do that," Dawn protests and then pauses. "Anymore."

Julie and Emily laugh and even I allow a small smile in Dawn's direction.

Logan Bruno appears at our table wearing a giant grin. He flips open his notepad and winks at all of us in turn. "Afternoon, lovely ladies," he greets us and gives Dawn a second wink. "What can I get for you on this hot summer day?"

Across the table, Julie bites her lip and snorts.

I give Logan a hard stare and hand over my menu. "A slice of peach pie," I tell him, "and an _orange_ soda. Get it right this time."

Logan scribbles the order on his pad without ever looking at me. He doesn't look at Julie and Emily either when they order. He saves his gaze for Dawn along with a friendly grin and a dripping drawl that cannot be completely real. Dawn doesn't pay much attention. She orders the fruit platter and a ginger ale without glancing up from her menu. When she's finished, she hands over her menu and offers Logan a tiny smile.

Logan rewards her with an even larger one. "I guess you're getting reconnected with all your old friends," he observes and doesn't tear his eyes from Dawn. I can't believe he thinks Dawn and I were ever friends. Does he even remember middle school?

"Almost everyone's been very nice," Dawn says and jerks her head toward me.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I demand, turning to look at her.

Dawn shrugs.

"Probably not that you've been nice," Julie tells me.

Obviously, Dawn forgets who invited her along in the first place.

Logan chuckles. "That's what you get for hanging out with Grace Blume. She's got an ax to grind," he says and punches me in the shoulder like I'm one of his football buddies. What ax is he talking about? He's such a moron.

"Could you please put our order in?" Emily requests, irritably. "Some of us have other places to be later. Go on now. Don't dawdle."

"Sure thing, lovely ladies," Logan replies, smoothly, and then turns and struts away.

No one speaks for a moment.

"Okay," Julie says, breaking the silence, "if he comes back here and calls us 'lovely ladies' again, I'm shoving this table down his throat."

Everyone laughs, even Dawn.

Dawn waves her hand. "He's harmless," she assures us. "He's a dork, that's all."

"Maybe he'll ask you out," Emily suggests, seriously. "You can be his exclusive lovely lady."

"Do you think I could?" Dawn asks, just as seriously and everyone laughs again.

When Logan returns with our drinks we manage to hold in our laughter until he goes back into the kitchen. It's not a moment too soon. Julie's lips are pressed so tight together that her face has taken on a slightly purple hue.

"When he comes back," Emily says, "someone needs to call him a jaunty gentleman."

Julie chokes on her root beer.

"Emily, if you call him that I will die happy right here," I tell her.

"Oh, you know I'll do it," Emily replies.

"You guys are awful!" Dawn cries with a laugh. "Poor Logan! He's flirting. Not very well, I might add. Unless that's what girls in Stoneybrook go for."

"The dumb ones," I reply, jabbing my straw into my orange soda. At least he got that right.

"My boyfriend...well, my sort-of boyfriend - we're on a break - is a lot more natural. That's what I like. Flattery and winking is too dorky," Dawn tells us and sips her ginger ale. "Do you have boyfriends?" she asks Emily and Julie, a question that almost makes me spit out my soda. "I know Grace doesn't. She's far too selective and no mere mortal can reach the bar she has set."

"That's right," I agree with a sharp nod.

Emily shakes her head. "No. I have to focus on school," she says, quietly. "Schoolwork is much more important. Boys are a distraction."

"Boys are repulsive is more like it," Julie exclaims, so loud several other customers turn around. "Have you ever taken a good look at a teenage boy? I live with one and can't possibly entertain the thought of willingly going out with one. No, thank you. Besides, I'm spoken for."

I roll my eyes.

"Um...by whom?" Dawn asks and she's already figured out that she ought to be wary of the answer.

"I'm marrying Emily's uncle," Julie explains, stirring her straw in her soda. "Then I'll be Emily's aunt and she'll have to do whatever I say."

I roll my eyes again. Oh, the Sterns and their many fake love affairs. And Julie's nuts if she thinks Emily will ever let her wear the pants in that relationship. "Isn't Emily's uncle fifty years old?" I ask Julie, even though I know this is a topic that should not be encouraged.

"Something like that," Julie replies.

"He's forty-nine," Emily corrects. "And he has a girlfriend."

"There isn't a ring on her finger," Julie protests and sips her root beer. "He looks pretty good for an old guy. He has nice calves. I've seen him in shorts a couple times."

"You're really weird," Dawn informs Julie.

"You're just jealous because I get to be the next Mrs. Bernstein."

"Trust me, Julie, no one else is vying for that honor," I assure her. "And if you marry Emily's uncle, I will personally bake the wedding cake."

"Thanks. I like chocolate."

Luckily (or unluckily, depending on the flip of the coin), Logan appears with our order and I escape from an increasingly silly conversation with Julie Stern. Logan serves Dawn first, of course, and then Julie and Emily. He saves me for last and sort of tosses the plate in front of me. I am displeased to see it's blueberry pie and not peach. When I point this out to him, he pretends not to hear. He's busy prodding Dawn to bite into a strawberry, which is...beyond bizarre.

"Where's the manager?" I demand.

Logan barely looks at me. "On his lunch break. Do you have a problem? I'm the assistant manager on duty," he says and sounds completely unconcerned.

Oh, well, of course he is. Who is better qualified for a management position than a high school student?

"I ordered the peach pie," I inform him and shove my plate away. "Take that back."

"I'm on a break," Logan replies and resumes talking to Dawn.

"You should do a Mallory Pike on him," Julie suggests.

"You would like that wouldn't you?" I reply.

"Yes, I would."

I've had enough of being ignored. With a sweep of my hand, I send the plate sliding across the table and onto the floor. It shatters on impact, cracking apart loudly, and then laying in a mound of off-white ceramic and pie crust and purplish, lumpy blueberry filling.

Logan curses under his breath.

I sit tall, spreading my arms back across the booth and look down at Logan, now crouched on the floor, mumbling to himself and scooping the mess into his apron. Julie laughs across the table and beside her, Emily leans over and says, quite seriously to Logan, "Clean that up, jaunty gentleman," which makes Julie laugh harder.

"That wasn't necessary," Dawn tells me.

"Maybe next time, he'll listen."

Dawn slides out of the booth and kneels on the floor next to Logan, gathering the largest pieces of ceramic onto her napkin.

"Hey, this is my job," Logan says, lightly and chuckles. "You get back up in that booth where you belong and I'll stay on the ground, on my hands and knees, groveling beneath you."

I roll my eyes at Julie and Emily.

When Logan leaves to find a mop, Dawn rises from the floor and slides back into the booth. "That was really mean," she says to me and picks up her fork. "And the two of you shouldn't have laughed," she scolds Julie and Emily.

"Logan shouldn't be lame," Julie counters and lifts an enormous bite of chocolate smothered in chocolate to her mouth.

"That isn't an excuse to be mean. We were having a good time. Now that's ruined," Dawn says and spears two grapes with her fork and lifts them to her mouth.

She sounds like somebody's mother.

"Well," I say, arms still spread wide, "I'm not apologizing."

"I didn't expect you to."

I glance over at her. I watch her as she eats her fruit, lifting sliver after sliver to her mouth, and chewing quickly and intently. I glance away again and drop my arms, folding them on the tabletop. I lean forward and suck my orange soda through its straw, suck in a long, continuous stream, staring straight ahead between Julie and Emily.

It really isn't the same after that.

In the early evening, long after the four of us have parted, I'm at home in my bedroom, working on my lists. I write new entries for Dawn, Gran, and my father. Dawn acts like a mother - con, but she's also fair-minded - pro. Gran is inhumanly patient - pro, but she's also far too secretive - con. Plus, she lied to me about my mother's pregnancy and how my mother felt about me before I was born. I put that in both columns. A pro and a con. My father worries about Gran's health - pro. I almost give Mrs. Bernstein her second ever positive entry, but decide to first find out if she did indeed kick Mrs. Hoffman's ass before setting anything down in ink. Anyone who smacks around the woman who spawned crazy Lauren Hoffman deserves a gold star.

Down the hall, my parents are dressing for a cocktail party at the Wallingfords' house. The Wallingfords live a block over and Dr. and Mrs. Wallingford are friends of my parents. Their daughter, Dorianne, is my age, but we are not friends. Sometimes we played together when we were kids, but now we barely speak, hardly acknowledge the existence of the other. I do not approve of Dorianne Wallingford. Everyone knows she's a slut. The school slut. I wonder if her parents know. I bet they would be disappointed. They must suspect, at least, because in the spring, Dorianne had an abortion. She tried to keep it a secret, even from her parents, but everyone found out anyway. Cary Retlin, who knocked her up, bragged about it all over school. Dorianne's reputation will never recover. I don't feel sorry for her. She did it to herself.

My father appears in the doorway of my bedroom. He's dressed in a gray sport coat and a light blue shirt. He isn't wearing a tie. It's strange seeing him without one. Even though the door is wide open and I'm looking right at him, Dad raises his fist and raps on the door.

"You may enter," I inform him and casually close my binder, so that he will not see.

"Fay wants you," he tells me, stepping into the room. He comes to stand near my desk. "What are you doing? Homework? In the summer?"

"My summer reading," I lie, returning the binder to its drawer. "Remember?"

"Oh, yes, of course. I thought you were doing that with Allison."

"I can read on my own, too," I remark, barely masking the vague irritation I feel. I'm not stupid. The books are.

"Yes, of course. I know that," Dad replies and looks embarrassed. As he should.

"Gran said you called her."

"Yes," Dad answers. "Fay wanted me to."

I raise an eyebrow. "Mom asked you to call Gran?"

"No."

Sometimes talking to my father is as difficult as talking to Mom and Gran. He doesn't give. He only holds back.

"You said Mom wants me?" I ask when he offers nothing else.

"Yes. She's in the bedroom. Tell her I'll be waiting downstairs," Dad says and hesitates a second before turning around and leaving my room. He's probably going to fix a drink.

I find Mom seated at her dressing table in my parents' enormous bathroom. She's dressed for the cocktail party in a strapless mint green dress with a sheer floral-print band around her waist. There are silver-ish stilettos on her feet. She is as beautiful as always, serene-looking and complete.

"Come in, Grace," she says to me, spying my reflection in the mirror. She sprays perfume across her chest and then onto her wrists. She rubs them together. "Hal certainly took his sweet time fetching you. Where has he gone?"

"Downstairs," I reply, striding into the room toward her. "You wanted me?"

"Yes, I did," Mom answers and lifts open the top of the jewelry chest on her dressing table. "I want your advice on what jewelry I should wear," she tells me, picking through the many earrings tossed into the chest. "I began to put on the sapphires, but thought they may be too dark. What do you think? I'm also considering the aquamarine or the diamonds." Mom lines the earrings on the tabletop, the tear drop sapphires, the oval aquamarines, and five pairs of diamonds in a variety of cuts.

I study them, critically, looking between them and Mom. "Not the aquamarine," I say, definitively, and scoop them up and set them to rest again in the jewelry chest. "I don't know about the sapphires. Go with the diamonds, the safe choice. These ones. The square-cut."

Mom smiles and picks up one of the earrings between her fingers. "Thank you, Grace. I believe you made the correct choice," she says and pulls the back off the earring and slides it into her ear. "I'm only wearing the earrings and my wedding ring. I decided that before you came in. Women wear too much jewelry these days. I'm going to be a minimalist."

I watch her slide the other earring into her ear and snap on the back. Her wedding ring flashes in the warm light of the fixture above the dressing table. Her ring is very simple - a square-cut diamond in the center and two smaller diamonds on either side. It is the same ring my father gave her when he proposed. A lot of mothers I know - like Cokie's mother - trade their rings in every few years, trade them up for something bigger and better. My mother has always worn the same one. She never wears her wedding band.

I take her left hand as she reaches for her hairbrush. I hold her palm against mine, hold it in the bathing light, and study her ring, turning it to catch its angles in the glare. "Were you excited when Dad gave this to you?" I ask her.

"Yes. I was very excited," Mom replies with a smile. "And surprised. I wasn't expecting it. I was still in law school and Hal had just finished his clerkship and started at Brindle and Branson in New Haven. He spent his first paycheck on this ring." Mom moves her hand from mine, holds it out, fingers splayed, admiring the shining diamonds that flicker in the light. "I was very surprised. I didn't think he'd actually want to marry me."

"Why not?" I ask because I can't imagine my father not wanting to be married to my mother. If nothing else, I know how much he loves her.

"I just didn't think he would," Mom answers and picks up her hairbrush. She's curled her hair and brushes it slowly and carefully back. "I didn't think anyone would. I thought I'd never get married."

"You were only twenty-five when you married Dad," I point out. "You were hardly an old maid."

Mom shrugs. "I know. It wasn't that. I didn't think anyone would ever want to take me on full-time. I know I am difficult. I don't know how Hal's put up with me all these years," she says and sets down the hairbrush. "Everyone thinks Hal is lucky because of how I look, but I am the lucky one. Hal isn't perfect and he's made his mistakes, but he's the best man I've ever known. One day, Grace, I hope you are lucky enough to meet a man like your father. You are very lucky now that I found such a good man to be your father."

I watch Mom and wonder if this is a time to push. She looks relaxed and open. She looks as if she may answer with real answers, not vagueness and nonchalance. I consider as she unscrews the cap on her lipstick tube and glides the soft rose pink over her lips. "Is this a good color?" she asks me.

"Perfect," I tell her and decide to dive in. "Was your father mean?" I ask her.

Mom pauses in her lipstick application. Her olive green eyes shift toward me. "Was my father mean?" she repeats in a strange and mystified voice. "What kind of a question is that?"

I lean forward onto my palms on the dressing table edge and lift my shoulders. "I don't know. It's just a question," I reply. "Gran said he wasn't very nice."

Mom's eyes widen for a split second before returning to their normal size. "She said that?" Mom asks in an astonished tone. "She actually said that?"

I lift my shoulders again. "Sort of," I say and it's not exactly a lie. "She said the nicest thing he ever did for her was die. I drew my own conclusions from that."

Mom throws her head back and laughs. Her laugh isn't of amusement. It's high and rough and bitter. "She is priceless," Mom roars with another laugh. "The things that woman thinks of to say. That's what comes from reading too many books. She thinks she's actually living in one." Mom closes the cap on her lipstick and slips it into her purse. She's silent for a few seconds, zipping the purse closed, eyes downcast, watching the teeth move easily together. She sets the purse aside and glances back up, looking at herself in the mirror. "Your grandmother is insane," she informs me. "She was also the merriest widow Stoneybrook has ever seen. And that's quite a feat for your grandmother considering her typical range of emotion is between ice cold and indifferent. I've only seen her elated twice in my entire life. The second time was at the funeral home. Absolutely elated. Well, as elated as she can manage to get. Elation for her is what passes as simple pleasure for normal people. Corinne was bawling. Such wasted tears. The funeral director didn't know what to think."

I study her as her words sink in. She remains so composed. So unflustered. She says everything easily as if none of it matters. It's like she's reading from someone else's life.

"But Mom," I say to her, "you didn't answer my question."

"Didn't I?" she asks, cooler than usual. "I'm sure the answer is in there somewhere."

She's clamming up. The conversation is reaching its end, sputtering to its resting place. There is no reason to push now. She will stand firm and unmovable.

"Do you think I'm mean?" I ask her.

Mom raises her eyes upward at me. "Do I think you're mean?" she repeats, surprised. "Of course not. What would give you that idea?"

I raise my shoulders.

"Did someone tell you that you're mean?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

I hesitate, but I don't lie. "Dawn Schafer."

Mom's face registers confusion. "Who?" she asks and then her face changes. "Oh...Sharon Porter's girl. I thought I asked you not to hang out with her?"

"She's Mary Anne's stepsister, Mom. I can't exactly avoid her at all times. And I am not hanging out with her."

Mom watches me a moment and then turns her attention away and begins tossing her earrings back into the jewelry chest. The chest is filled with earrings and bracelets, thrown and resting in a jumble. "I believe you, Grace," Mom says. "I trust you to tell me the truth. I will always believe you."

There's a pang in my chest, pointed and piercing with guilt. My mother asks so little of me. Maybe I should listen to her. Maybe I should give her that consideration. I reach out and touch one of her bracelets. It's opals and peridot. I'm allowed to wear her jewelry whenever I want. I don't even have to ask. "Thank you," I say to her when the pang numbs. "I like these," I tell Mom, picking up an earring. It's a heart-shaped garnet with a silver arch curving around its right side.

"You should," Mom replies. "Hal bought those earrings for me after you were born. Garnets for our birthdays. You and I are both January babies. Do you want them? You should have them."

"No. It's okay."

"No. You should have them," Mom insists and pushes back her chair and rises. She searches through the jewelry chest with her long clear-polished nails until she comes up with the earring's mate. She reaches out and tucks my hair behind my left ear and unsnaps the white hoop earring that hangs there. "I was supposed to be a February baby," she tells me, pushing the garnet into my ear. Now that we are facing each other, eye to eye, I smell that she's already been drinking. I wish she wouldn't. Why must it be all the time? "But I was early. Four weeks, I think. The doctors thought I might die. That's probably..." Mom doesn't finish. Her thought drifts off with her voice. She cups my chin in her hand and turns my head to the left and then to the right. "Lovely," she says. "Garnets aren't the ideal stone for redheads, of course, but you are lovely."

"Thank you," I say, softly, rightly shamed for my earlier lie. "And I didn't know any of that." Like I didn't know about these earrings. I touch the left one. I didn't know what they were for. I still don't know. Not completely. They could have been for congratulations or consolation.

"I guess I never mentioned it," Mom replies and sits back down. She removes her Binaca from her purse and sprays it in her mouth. She doesn't want the Wallingfords and their guests to know she drank before the party. She does that every time. So does my father. People see my parents so infrequently that I wonder if they even suspect. If they know the Blumes drink too much and too often, or if they know nothing at all, nothing except that the Blumes appear sporadically at parties and are fun and charming and well-liked. Mrs. Bernstein knows about their drinking and I'm still uncertain how she figured it out.

Dad's heavy footfalls sound on the staircase and approach down the hall, loud and in long strides. He appears through the doorway of the bedroom and comes into the bathroom and stops behind Mom's chair. He places his hands on her bare, porcelain white shoulders. "You are radiant, my dear," he says and bends down to kiss her neck.

"You're just saying that because you're tired of waiting on me," Mom replies with a light and airy chuckle.

"Maybe, maybe not. You can ponder it on the way to Jim and Dotty's."

"All right, all right. I'm ready," Mom says and slides off the chair. She straightens and smoothes out her dress. She looks very summery - sunny and airy like the laugh she had for my father. Usually, she looks darker, more stern and business-like. "Open," she commands Dad and raises the Binaca to his mouth. When he obeys, she pumps it twice and then tucks the Binaca back inside her purse.

I follow my parents downstairs.

"What will you do tonight, Grace?" Dad asks me, as we descend the stairs. He and Mom are together, shoulders bumping into one another and I am behind.

"I don't know," I answer. "I'll find something to do."

"You could invite your friends over," Mom suggests. "I'll give you some money if you want to order out."

"I don't need any money," I tell her. She gave me money two days ago and I've not yet spent even half. "And I was with Emily and Julie all afternoon. I need an evening to recover. Besides, it's Friday night. Emily's in Stamford with her parents."

"You have other friends," Mom points out. "But whatever you decide, have a good night. If you go out, will you leave a note?"

"I'll leave you a Post-It," I promise.

Mom laughs and disappears through the door into the garage. Dad turns back and smiles at me before going after her. Then the door shuts and the house is silent as usual.


	14. Chapter 14

Even though my parents didn't stumble in until nearly one o' clock, my mother is awake when I come downstairs on Saturday morning. She's awake and in the office, sitting behind her desk, drinking coffee and wearing her blue and lavender jogging suit. She's already been up then, up and running around the neighborhood, hopefully at a decent hour. I didn't hear the front door slam in the early hours like I have the last few nights. She has a new routine, one my father disapproves of and one I do not understand. Like Gran, my mother is perplexing. 

I wander into the kitchen and toss an English muffin into the toaster oven and then pour the remainder of the coffee from the pot into a mug. I stir in french vanilla creamer while waiting for my breakfast and when it's done and buttered, I take it and my coffee back through the living room and into the office. 

Mom glances up at me. "Good morning," she says and then returns to her work. 

"Good morning," I echo and sit down on a cleared corner of her desk. "What are you doing?" 

"Paying bills," she answers. 

"Happy Saturday." 

Mom chuckles. "I know, but it must be done. You enjoy having water and air conditioning, right?" 

"I sort of do." 

"Then you're in luck, you'll have them for another month. I can't make any promises past that though." 

"I'll take what I can get," I tell her and blow on my coffee before taking a tentative sip. Not too hot at all. "How was the party?" I ask her. "I heard you come in late." 

"We had a good time," Mom says, tearing a check from the book. "It's too bad we don't make it to more parties. But work is a priority above socializing. Marc and Ginny were there," Mom says, sealing the envelope. Marc and Ginny are Cokie's parents, the Masons, who used to be my parents' closest friends. "They invited us for dinner sometime next week. I don't want to go, of course. Nothing against them, but their house, it always smells like cigarettes." Mom shudders as she tosses the envelope onto the pile. "And besides, Marc..." 

"Yes?" I prompt. 

"Oh...he's just become so...unpleasant in recent years. Pompous and demanding. He's hard to take sometimes," Mom says, flipping her checkbook closed and sliding it inside her wallet. She doesn't speak of the Masons often. When Cokie and I were kids, our parents saw a lot of each other. They had things in common then, but that slowly changed. Mrs. Mason started gaining weight five or six years ago and stopped wanting to play tennis and racquetball with my mother. And Mr. Mason became irritating, according to my parents. They all grew apart and then when the Incident occurred it was a convenient time to make a clean break. 

"Are you not going then?" I ask. 

"I don't know. We'll probably be busy. There's a lot going on at work, especially for your father." 

There's always a lot going on at work. 

I take a bite of my English muffin and chew slowly. I've eaten half and am full. I drop the rest into the wastebasket beside Mom's desk. It falls on top of a bottle and slides off the glass. I stare down at the bottle in the wastebasket and reach down for it. There's nothing unusual about a bottle in our house, but there is something odd about this one - in the wastebasket, the bottles are always drained and this one is full with its cap still screwed on tight. "What is this?" I ask Mom, reading the label on the bottle. It's a light amber color. Scotch. 

Mom looks over and snorts. "Jim and Dotty gave that out at the end of the party," she explains and reaches over and jerks the bottle from my grip with much greater force than I expected. "We don't drink whisky in this house," she says, flatly, and drops the bottle into the wastebasket. 

Mom isn't in the best of moods today. Too much alcohol last night and too little sleep afterward. I slide off the desk corner and brush a few crumbs off my t-shirt. "Where's Dad?" I ask. 

"He's still asleep. I don't understand this sleeping in business. There's too much that needs to be done. Who wants to spend all their time sleeping?" 

I shrug. I like sleeping in. "I'm going to go back upstairs," I tell her. She isn't very pleasant at the moment. I don't need her bringing my morning down. 

"Okay," Mom says, not glancing up from the file she just opened. "Oh, wait," she calls when I've turned and begun out the door. "You got something in the morning mail." Mom holds out a long white envelope. 

I take the envelope from her and study its front. It's from Stoneybrook High. My name is typed on the front and misspelled. The "e" has been left off of "Blume". I tear open the envelope and unfold the letter. It's also typed and addressed as "Dear Student". It's from Mr. Grainier, the British Literature teacher. I roll my eyes. "It's from my English teacher," I tell Mom, even though she isn't paying attention. I skim the letter - _Dear Student_, it reads, _I have received many inquiries about the summer reading assignment and regret the misunderstanding. The revised list still stands. The Shakespearean play assigned is "Taming of the Shrew". There will be no further revisions. Please complete this reading and the required two-page analysis and be ready to discuss the play when the new school year begins._

I roll my eyes again. Mr. Grainier is such a moron. It's taken him this long to decide our assignment? 

"What is it?" Mom asks. 

"It's about my stupid summer reading assignment," I answer, stuffing the letter back inside the envelope. "Remember how I told you that no one knew what Shakespearean play we're supposed to read? Apparently, Mr. Grainier finally saw fit to inform us of his final decision." 

"Why doesn't your teacher know what you're supposed to be reading? As the teacher, isn't that something he should be on top of?" 

"He's an idiot," I reply, flicking the envelope back onto her desk. "Plus, the Bernsteins confused him. We were originally assigned _The Merchant Of Venice_ but the Bernsteins were upset because Mr. Grainier labeled it a comedy. So, they complained and Mr. Grainier changed the play to _Taming Of The Shrew_, but the Bernsteins complained about that, too. They said the play is sexist and shouldn't be called a comedy. They wanted Mr. Grainier to teach it as a tragedy." 

Mom laughs, loudly. "Really?" she asks, still laughing. "They actually told your teacher that? Which one of them thought of _that_? I doubt Marian's creative enough, so it had to have been Bernard. I always wondered what goes on in that strange little head of his. Now I know." Mom laughs again and turns a page in her file. "When I was at Smith, the drama club put on this production of _Taming Of The Shrew_ where at the end, Kate gave her final speech and then raised her hands to reveal she'd slit her wrists. Is that tragic enough for Bernard and Marian? I bet that's an interpretation they could get behind." 

"Probably," I agree. "Mrs. Bernstein told Emily that Mr. Grainier is doing a disservice to all his students by perpetuating the belief that humiliating a woman and calling it a comedy is acceptable in this day and age." 

Mom stops smiling and quiets for a moment. She marks something on her paper and then turns the page. She marks something else. "Yes," she says, slowly, "I understand her point. There's nothing funny about breaking a woman's spirit. I didn't like that play when I was in high school. I agree with Marian." Mom pauses and glances up. Her green eyes shift back and worth. "Do you feel that?" she asks. 

"Feel what?" 

"Hell freezing over," Mom replies and smiles. 

I smile back at her. She has changed so quickly. Her mood has risen considerably in such a short space of time. I am glad. "I'll have to go buy the play," I tell Mom. I could borrow it from Gran, but I wouldn't want to write in one of her books. That would throw her into a fit. "I'm going to go to Bellair's. Do you want to come with me?" 

"Do I want to come with you?" Mom repeats in surprise. She stares at me a moment and I instantly regret asking. She looks down at the work that she's carefully spread in front of her. "Um...yes. I'll go with you," she answers and pushes her chair away from the desk. "I'll want to shower and change, of course." 

"You'll go?" I reply, equally as surprised in her response as she was in my question. 

"Why do you look so shocked?" Mom asks with a light laugh and rises from the chair. "I'll run upstairs and shower." 

It takes Mom and I almost an hour and a half to get ready. By then, Dad is awake and has showered and dressed, as well, and is downstairs reading the newspaper and eating an early lunch. I sit on the couch with him, flipping through the entertainment section while waiting for Mom. She finally appears on the stairs, taking the steps quickly. There's a spring in her step as she enters the living room. She looks much different than she did when I first saw her this morning, happier and more alert. She looks much different than she usually does anyway. She's dressed in black pants and a thin black three-quarter sleeve blouse with regular high heels. She looks very normal. She looks like anyone else's mother. 

"You're going to Bellair's," Dad remarks, lowering his newspaper. 

"Yes. I am," Mom replies, leaning over the back of the couch. "We won't be long." She kisses him. 

"Have fun," Dad calls to us as we go into the kitchen. 

"You're driving, right?" Mom asks me when we're in the garage. 

"Yes," I answer, casually, unzipping my purse and digging deep for my keys. I don't make a big deal of it. 

Mom waits for me to unlock the doors and then ducks into the passenger seat. She has to move the seat back. I latch my belt and wait for Mom to latch hers before backing slowly out of the garage. I am not usually so cautious, but then, usually I don't have my mother in the car. She starts messing with the air conditioning and radio controls. Normally, with anyone else that would annoy me, but I let it pass. 

"This car isn't very comfortable," Mom comments, adjusting her legs for the fifth time. 

"That isn't the point," I tell her. "It looks fantastic." 

"Well, as long as you have your priorities straight," Mom says and moves her legs again. 

As I turn onto Main Street, it occurs to me that I can't recall when I last went downtown with my mother. Or anywhere else aside from our trip to Fiji. Sometimes, my parents and I go out to breakfast or dinner, but those times are few and far between. For the most part, I see them at home and that is all. 

"I never go to Bellair's," Mom says when we pull into the parking lot. "We used to shop here when you were a little girl. You probably don't remember." 

"No, I remember," I reply, unlatching my belt. Mostly, I remember the time she had a seizure in the cosmetics department. I don't mention that though. 

When Mom and I enter Bellair's, we head straight to the escalator and ride up to the second floor to the book section. I wonder on the way up if Stacey and Mary Anne are working today. Probably. The Kid Center is on the third floor. Sometimes Julie, Emily, and I visit them, but I won't today. I doubt Mom would object, but I like that for right now it is just her and I. I can visit Stacey and Mary Anne any time. It is not often that I am anywhere with my mother. 

"Do any of the books have the answers in the back?" I ask Mom when we're in the book store. Naturally, the Shakespeare section is on the two bottom rows and we must rest on our knees to view them. 

"What kind of answers are you looking for?" Mom asks, flipping to the back of a copy of _Taming Of The Shrew_. 

"You know, when they explain everything at the end, like why the so-called jokes are supposedly funny." 

"Oh, I found exactly what you want then," Mom replies and holds up an enormous black and gold book. "_The Complete Annotated Works Of Shakespeare_. You can read every play and sonnet. And it's only one hundred and thirty-nine dollars!" 

"Hm...I think I'll pass." 

"Your loss," Mom says, sliding the book back onto the shelf. "Although my wallet thanks you." 

We purchase a nice, slim annotated version of _Taming Of The Shrew_ and then leave the book store. "We should go up to the third floor," I tell Mom. "We can go to housewares." 

Mom looks at me, blankly. "Why?" 

"We can buy a new electric can opener to replace the one you broke ages ago." 

Mom laughs. "It didn't work properly," she insists. "In fact, I think it worked better after it slammed against the wall." 

In housewares, Mom and I have an impossible time figuring out which can opener to buy. Mom wants to buy the most expensive one and be done with it. That one looks way too complicated though. We end up buying the same one we had before. Despite what Mom claims, I know it worked just fine. 

"I feel so domestic," Mom remarks on the escalator ride down. She's holding the bag with the can opener. "We should have bought some mixing bowls and muffin tins, too." 

I laugh. "Like you could make muffins," I reply. 

"I could buy some at the A&P and shove them into the muffin tins. Then we could all pretend," Mom says with a laugh. "Oh, hell, I don't think I could even _find_ my way to the A&P." She laughs again. "Where are the shoes? I need a pair of running shoes." 

"The first floor," I tell her as we step off the escalator. I point to the far left. "Right over there." I can't believe she plans to keep up this running thing. It's insane. "Did you and Gran shop together very often when you were a girl?" I ask Mom as we make our way through the cosmetics department. I wonder if Mom's remembering her seizure, the one everyone saw. 

"Sure," Mom answers me, stopping to look at a perfume display. She sniffs the spritzer. "She took Margolo and I back-to-school shopping at the end of every summer. Then we went summer shopping in the spring. We used to come here, actually, but it wasn't called Bellair's. It was something else, but I've forgotten the name. Or we went to the Karberger's that used to be in Mercer. Not very often though because it was so far away." 

"Why didn't Aunt Corinne shop with you?" I ask as we move to the next counter so Mom may look at the lipsticks and eyeshadows. 

"She was just a baby," Mom replies, rubbing a coral-colored lipstick onto the back of her hand. She makes a face at it, displeased. "I'm eleven years older than her, you know. So, when I was a little girl, she wasn't around to go shopping and then when I was older, she usually stayed home with Elsa. Elsa was the housekeeper we had when I was a girl. My mother didn't like dragging the three of us around at once. We were too much for her." 

"Wasn't it fun though?" I ask her and almost add, _fun like we are having_, but maybe Mom isn't having such a great time after all. "Shopping with Gran?" 

Mom shrugs and puts away the red lipstick she's been considering. She moves away from the counter. "Not really," she answers. "There wasn't time for fun because of the time constraints. My father dropped us off and we had to be out front waiting when he came back. We couldn't be late." 

"Why did he have to drop you off? Couldn't Gran have driven you herself? That would have been easier." 

"She couldn't drive," Mom tells me. "She didn't learn until...I don't even remember. Much later. I was already grown and gone." 

My mouth drops open. "She couldn't _drive_?" I exclaim and realize I am too loud for the store. I lower my voice to its usual level. "Why couldn't she drive?" I ask. 

Mom just shrugs. 

In the shoe department, Mom tries on a dozen different pairs of running shoes. She's very picky and demanding and the saleslady fast grows irritated with us. Mom ignores her annoyance and requests five more pairs of shoes in a different size. The saleslady scowls as she leaves and vanishes into the back room. 

"People are so rude these days," Mom says, testily. "It's like she doesn't understand her job." Mom leans back on the bench and stretches out her legs, admiring her feet. She's wearing two different running shoes. A black and pink shoe on the right, a white, gray, and red shoe on the left. I can't imagine there's any real difference between them. 

In the end, she buys nothing at all. 

"Are you hungry?" I ask Mom when we've left Bellair's and are crossing the parking lot to my car. 

"I suppose so," Mom says. 

"Do you want to get something to eat?" 

"Okay. That's fine with me," Mom says and checks her wristwatch. "Yes. That's fine. I'll have most of the afternoon and all the evening to finish my work." 

Of course. 

"Do you want to go to Argo's?" I ask, although I realize she likely doesn't know what that is. 

"Sure. Let's walk," Mom suggest after I've tossed my bags into the trunk. "We can burn off some of the calories from lunch," she says, even though Argo's is barely a block and a half away. Anyplace in downtown Stoneybrook is barely a block and a half away. "But let's stay on this side of the street," Mom continues. "I'm not walking in front of the Bernsteins' pharmacy. If Marian sees us, she'll come out and make me talk to her. I don't feel like taking a pop quiz on my health from Marian the librarian today." 

I giggle and slam the trunk down. "Don't worry. It's Saturday and they're at synagogue. Mr. Malkowski's at the pharmacy today." 

"Oh, good to know." 

Mom and I enter Argo's five minutes later and slide into a booth in the corner by the front window. It's the booth my friends and I usually sit at since it has the best view of downtown Stoneybrook. It's also more secluded and quieter than most of the other booths and a great distance from the restrooms, which is a detail Emily cares a lot about. I don't even open my menu. I already know what I want. I order the same thing every time I am here. A patty melt with onion rings and a pineapple soda. Argo's is the only place in Stoneybrook - and possibly all of Southern Connecticut - that serves pineapple soda. I like to think it's solely for me. 

Mom opens her menu and scans it quickly. Then she flips to the back and scans, knitting her eyebrows together, as if she expected there to be some sort of secret menu there. Instead, it's just a list of desserts and beverages. "Oh...I don't know what I'll get," she says, hesitantly. "All this food sounds so...messy." 

This coming from a woman who practically lives on frozen dinners. Since when is she a picky eater? 

"This is what I'm getting," I tell her and lean over the table to point to the patty melt on her menu. 

"I don't want my breath to smell like onions," Mom says and closes her menu. "Hal may not care for that." 

Funny, she never minds her breath smelling like alcohol, but I guess Dad likes that. 

"Are you ready?" our waitress asks, appearing at our booth. 

"Yes," Mom replies and hands over her menu. "I will have the chicken caesar sandwich and an iced tea." 

"I'll have the same," I say without hesitation and hand over my menu, too. 

"Well, that's easy," the waitress says with a grin and walks away. 

"You changed your order," Mom observes. 

"Your order sounded better." 

Mom smiles and sets her hands in her lap and then looks out the window, watching downtown Stoneybrook, the streets busy with Saturday activity. 

"This is really nice," I comment when the waitress brings our iced teas. I squeeze my lemon wedge into mine and then stir in half a packet of sugar. 

"It is," Mom agrees and does the same. 

"We don't usually hang out." 

Mom's quiet a moment. "Does that bother you?" she asks. 

"No. Of course not. You're very busy. You have an important job. I understand," I reply and stir my iced tea. I stir it around and around, watching the ice cubes bob up and down in the tea. "You don't smother me like _some_ mothers." 

"I wouldn't want to smother you," Mom says and raises her glass to her lips. She sips and sets it down again. "But I wouldn't want to ignore you like my mother ignored me." 

"I'm sorry that you felt ignored," I say, sincerely. "I know how Gran can be sometimes. I wish you would make up though. You could try. It's not too late. I think she's changed. She doesn't ignore me." 

Mom waves her hand. "I don't want to make up with that woman," she says, bitterly. "And she hasn't changed a bit." 

I shrug and take a long sip of my tea. I've finished the entire glass by the time the waitress brings our matching orders. I drench my fries in ketchup while Mom watches, wrinkling her nose. She gingerly shakes salt and pepper over her own fries and eats one very daintily before picking up her sandwich. She lifts the bread and checks through each layer as if not fully trusting the cooks at Argo's. She takes a small bite out of the corner. She nods, signaling her approval. 

"You asked why your grandmother couldn't drive," Mom says when we're halfway through our meal. It surprises me that she still remembers our earlier conversation, that she's still thinking of it after the way she blew it off. "My father wouldn't let her." 

I raise an eyebrow. "He wouldn't _let_ her?" I repeat. 

"He wouldn't let her," Mom confirms and pops a fry into her mouth. "She never learned before they were married because she didn't need to drive. She didn't need a car at boarding school and I don't think she ever left Smith in her three years there. Then she married my father and he wouldn't let her learn to drive." 

"Why not?" 

Mom shrugs. "Because he didn't like her going farther than she could walk without him." 

"Well, no wonder she was so happy when he died," I say, bluntly. "She could finally drive herself to the mall." 

Mom smiles, strangely. "Yes. It changed a lot of things," she says. She doesn't say anything for awhile. She eats in silence, nibbling at her food. She doesn't act very hungry. "You've become so inquisitive lately," Mom finally says. "You ask so many questions. It makes me wonder what your grandmother is telling you." 

"Hardly anything at all," I respond with a shrug. "Getting answers from her is like pulling teeth." 

"See? She hasn't changed a bit," Mom says. She isn't speaking in her normal loud and clear voice, the voice that rings through our house every evening, filling the air and all its space. Her voice is softer, so that no one else will hear. "Sometimes questions shouldn't be asked, not if you aren't really willing to accept the answers," Mom tells me, pushing a fry around her plate. "Last night...you asked me a question and I've thought about it. Maybe this is the sort of thing I should be talking to you about. I don't know because my mother never talked to me about anything, except gardening and tennis and all the things that are wrong with me. But you asked and I suppose my mother may tell you sooner or later. Or not. She can't admit these things. But she's insane, so there's no telling what she may or may not say." Mom pauses. "My father was mean. He was very mean." 

And she doesn't say anything else. She lets that hang above us and drift down, sinking into me. 

"How was he mean?" I finally ask. 

"How is anyone mean?" Mom replies. "He just was." 

"That doesn't really tell me anything," I say. I am feeling quite bold. I am feeling quite pushy. I think that for once, if I push, she may not clam up and brush me away. I have her here now, trapped in this booth, and she cannot walk off and shut me out. 

"You need an example?" Mom asks and drops the fry she's been pushing around. "Okay then," she says and shakes her head back, running her fingers through her red hair. "I will give you an example. Do you remember how last night I told you I was supposed to be a February baby? I was early because your grandfather threw your grandmother down the stairs." 

And I was not expecting that. 

"He...he _threw_ her down the stairs?" I ask, uncertain that I heard correctly. Could I have possibly? 

"Yes," Mom replies, simply. "My grandmother told me. My mother's mother. She said to me when I was...oh, I don't remember how old. Junior high or high school, I suppose. She said to me, 'you would have been a February baby had Ian not sent Allison careening down those stairs. I believe Miss Kingston's cheated us. They taught her poise and grace, why didn't they teach her balance?'" 

I am completely speechless. 

The seconds tick by. They tick past into minutes. 

"Your grandmother told you that?" I finally ask Mom. 

"Yes. She was quite put out with the whole thing. My mother was a constant disappointment to her. She was a constant disappointment to a lot of people." 

"Your grandmother sounds horrible. How could she blame Gran for that?" 

Mom shrugs. 

"Was your father like that all the time then?" 

"Yes. That probably wasn't the first time he threw her down the stairs. It certainly wasn't the last. He liked sending her tumbling down them. Or holding her over the railing and threatening to drop her. He thought it was hilarious. I don't know what she thought. When I was little, I remember her screaming, but then one day, she stopped. She just hung there and let it happen. That's your grandmother. She lets things happen. She thought she was strong because after he beat her, she would get up and go back to whatever she'd been doing. She wasn't strong at all." 

I stir my straw in the remainder of my iced tea, thinking of how to reply. I wasn't expecting any of this. I wasn't expecting for Mom to drop this on me, in my lap right here at Argo's, drop it like regular lunchtime conversation. "Did he hit you, too?" I ask Mom. 

Mom stares at me a moment. "No. He didn't hit me," she says and her voice is odd. She doesn't sound like herself. "He only hit her. I just watched." 

I don't think I could just stand aside and watch my father hit my mother. I know I could not. I almost say so, but hold back. I bite my tongue and realize that's likely not something my mother wishes to hear. She may never tell me anything again. Everything may go back to as it was before, clammed up and silent. 

"I'm sorry, Mom," I tell her. 

"Well, it was a long time ago," she says and she's brushing me off. "He's been dead a long time. Your grandmother was right, but as usual, she thinks only of herself. The nicest thing he ever did for any of us is die. He should have done it years earlier." 

"But Aunt Corinne cried," I point out. 

"Corinne is an idiot," Mom replies, coldly. 

"She knew he hit Gran?" 

"Of course. You couldn't live in that house and not know. Corinne is full of excuses. Excuses for all the wrong people. I told you, Corinne is an idiot," Mom says, bitterness slipping into her voice again. 

"Thank you for telling me, Mom," I say and I feel like there should be something more. I should hold her hand or slide into the booth beside her and put an arm around her. I'm not sure she would want that and I am not sure I could do that. 

"Well, you asked and I will never lie to you," she says and opens her purse. She takes out her compact and begins powdering her chin and forehead, the forehead Gran told her is too large. I don't think there's anything wrong with her forehead at all. 

"I will never lie to you either then," I promise, but wonder if that's a promise I can keep. 

Mom nods, gliding her lipstick over her bottom lip. "Good," she says and snaps the compact shut. 

And then it's like we've said so much that there is nothing left for us to say. 


	15. Chapter 15

My mother and I are pretending. 

We are pretending that nothing happened yesterday at Argo's. I would like to talk about it. I would like to know more. But my mother has clammed up again. She's turned off that part of herself, the part that allows her to be candid, the part that reveals bits and pieces of what I want to hear. It's turned off and there's no use pushing until she gives a subtle signal that perhaps it may turn on again. 

I'm awake early on Sunday morning, awake and ready for church. Gran usually picks me up on Sundays. She comes at exactly eight fifty-five. She is rarely ever late. At eight-twenty, I'm in the kitchen at the table dressed in a spring green sun dress with matching sandals and my hair curled and held back with a tortoiseshell clip. I'm eating cold cereal for breakfast when my mother bounds into the kitchen. She's been upstairs in the shower. She comes into the kitchen looking very suburban in dark jeans and a light pink three-quarter sleeve shirt with the buttons open across her chest. The sides of her chin-length hair are pulled tightly back and fastened with a barrette. Obviously, she isn't planning to leave the house today. She'll stay inside all day, buried in her office, buried in her work. 

"Good morning, Grace," Mom greets me, breezily, swinging open the refrigerator door. 

I wait for more and when it doesn't come return her greeting. "Good morning, Mom." 

Mom closes the refrigerator door with the orange juice carton in her hand. "Where's Hal?" she asks, removing a glass from the cabinet. 

"He went to the A&P," I answer. "He went to buy more gin." At eight in the morning. 

"Why didn't he tell me?" Mom asks, irritably. "We're almost out of rum. I'll call him on the car phone. He can go back." Mom sets her orange juice down and takes the phone off the hook on the wall. I watch her dial while spooning the bran flakes and raisins into my mouth. Across the kitchen, Mom taps her fingers impatiently on the counter, waiting for Dad to answer the phone. "Hello? Hal?" she says when he does. "This is your wife...no. Not Vivian. Fay, your other wife...yes, hello. Where are you?...well, turn the car back around. We're out of rum. I'd also like some cola and limes...well, why not?...okay, tell me when you get home. Goodbye..." Mom hangs up and turns to face me. She rolls her eyes. "He says he can't go back to the A&P right now. He wouldn't tell me why," she says and sits down across from me. 

"That's weird." 

"Yes, it is," Mom agrees and takes a long gulp of orange juice. "And he's calling me 'Vivian' now. He called me that on Friday at work when he was getting off the elevator. He said, 'have a good day on the twenty-sixth floor, Vivian.' The elevator was packed. I don't know what everyone must have thought." 

I giggle and eat the last spoonful of my cereal. 

"It's funny to you, I suppose," Mom says. She sets down her glass and sweeps over me with her eyes, as if completely seeing me for the first time this morning. "Oh. It's Sunday," she says, rather flatly. "You're going to church with that woman." 

"Yes. Gran's picking me up soon," I reply, ignoring her tone. I rise from my chair and carry the empty bowl to the sink, pouring out the remainder of the milk, and running the bowl under the faucet. I set the bowl in the sink and then turn to look at Mom. Her back is to me, her head tilted back slightly as she finishes the last drops of her juice. I return to the table and stand beside her. "You could come, too," I tell Mom. 

"Where? To church?" Mom scoffs. "I don't think so. I spent enough time at that church when I was a girl. It never did me any good. That place is full of self-righteous hypocrites and your grandmother is the biggest hypocrite of all. Church is exactly the right place for her. Maybe she'll learn something." 

I stand still for a moment, standing beside my mother, so close I could move my hand an inch and touch her. I wish I could. I wish I knew she would let me. Instead, I return to the chair across from her and pick up my own glass, sloshing around the orange juice inside. "I'd like for you to come," I say, watching the orange juice move around, hitting the sides of the clear glass. "Maybe Gran would like you to, too." 

Mom snorts. "She doesn't want me there," Mom says in her voice that drips with bitterness. It is a sad voice in its own way, a voice I am sad she possesses so easily and often. Mom doesn't speak and neither do I, not for a long stretch of time. Mom stares at her empty glass, holding it between her fingers, her face strangely blank, and finally Mom says, "Does she ever ask about me?" 

"No. She never asks about you." 

Mom's face remains blank. She stares at her glass a moment longer, then pushes back in her chair and rises. She crosses to the far end of the kitchen to a curve in the counter top where my parents keep the wine rack. She pulls out a bottle and jerks open the nearest drawer and digs through it until she comes up with the corkscrew. I watch her work it into the cork of the wine bottle, winding it in, her arm twisting fast around. She pulls the cork out with a single tug and opens the cabinet above her head, where she takes out a wine glass. The dark red liquid slides from the neck of the bottle, tumbling and gathering in the glass in bloody waves. She brings the glass and the bottle back to the table. The glass is already half gone by the time she sits down. 

I don't say anything. 

The door from the garage bangs open and Dad strides in, carrying a large grocery bag in his arms. "I just saw your favorite librarian," he informs Mom. 

"Marian?" Mom replies, turning around in her chair, still holding the wine glass. "She's my _least_ favorite librarian. She's my least favorite pharmacist, too. I'll take that stammering husband of hers any day. Was he trailing behind her like always?" 

"No, but I saw him in an empty checkout stand reading a magazine on my way out. He looked at me very guiltily. I don't think that's where he was supposed to be." 

"Marian should shorten his leash then," Mom says and tosses her head back, draining the glass. "So, what happened? Why couldn't you go back to the A&P? What did that crazy woman say to you?" 

Dad hesitates as he unpacks his grocery bag. There's a bag of English muffins and two large bottles of gin and a smaller bottle of some liquor I can't recognize from this distance. "She asked me if I knew which aisle to pick up my new liver on." 

"Oh! That judgmental bitch!" Mom cries and pours a second glass of wine. "You don't hear me asking her husband why he can't speak properly!" 

Dad lifts his shoulders, nonchalantly, and then leaves the kitchen with his bottles. 

"I detest that woman," Mom tells me, raising the glass to her lips. When she lowers it again, she says, "Emily is such a nice girl. I don't know how that happened." 

I shrug, like my father, shoulders lifting and falling slowly. Mrs. Bernstein needs to mind her own business. Now she's upset my mother and likely ruined most of the day. 

A car horn blasts outside. I check the clock on the wall and see that it's eight fifty-three. Gran is early, which isn't out of the ordinary. She blasts the horn again. 

"I'll be home later," I tell Mom, standing up and gathering my things from one of the chairs. "I don't know what time." 

"We'll be here," Mom replies. She doesn't offer a smile. She grimaces at her wine glass. "Have as good a time as possible." 

"Thanks." 

I rush out the front door and down the steps, but slow as I come down the walk. Gran's parked at the curb, hands on the steering wheel, watching me from behind her sunglasses. I've thought a lot about it and I don't know what I should say to her now that I know. I don't think I should tell her. It would be like betraying my mother's confidence. Mom and I share a secret now, a family secret, and I like that my knowing is now a secret to keep between us. 

Gran smiles when I open the passenger side door and slide into the seat. She's dressed in white slacks and a silky white blouse and there's the usual rosy hue to her cheeks. She looks as willowy and delicate as always. I can't imagine anyone hitting her, hitting her and shoving her and hanging her over a banister. When she smiles, she doesn't look like someone who's ever been hit. Certainly not like someone who's been hit repeatedly, beaten down until she no longer screams. Gran looks like anyone else. She looks exactly like the Gran I've known all my life. I wish I could tell her how sorry I am. Instead, I lean over and kiss her cheek. It's cool and smooth beneath my lips. 

"What was that for?" Gran asks in surprise. 

"I'm pleased to see you, that's all," I reply, pulling out my seat belt and jamming it into the latch. 

Gran smiles, but then the smile wavers. 

I turn away from her to look behind me, out my window, and see Mom coming out the front door, trotting down the front steps and down the walk toward us, striding fast and purposeful, a determined look settled on her face. She stops beside my window and raps on the glass. Gran sighs and pushes the button to roll the window down. Mom leans forward, looking in at us. 

"Aren't you dead yet?" she demands. 

"If I were dead, would I be driving this car?" Gran replies. 

"Why the hell can't you come to the front door and ring the bell like a normal person?" 

"Because three Easters ago you told me that I'm not allowed past the front porch." 

"And you took me seriously? That's just like you!" 

Gran smiles. It's not the smile I am used to. It isn't warm or friendly. There's something strange inching at the corners. "Does that bother you, Fay-Fay?" she asks and the smile widens. 

"Of course not. In fact, the rule still stands. You are not allowed beyond my front porch. Actually, you're not allowed on the damn front lawn either. Stay inside your damn car." 

"Such language!" Gran cries, breathlessly. "I didn't teach you to speak like that! You sound so unrefined!" 

Mom narrows her eyes. "What's this I hear about you being sick? I don't think I want my daughter riding in a car with you. You're awfully damn old." 

"You needn't be concerned," Gran insists with another smile. "I've never had a seizure and driven into a telephone pole." Gran hits the button and begins rolling up the window. "See you at Thanksgiving, Fay-Fay," she calls and the window reaches the top, blocking Mom, divided on the other side. 

Mom stares at us and I watch her, not knowing what to do. I am in the middle, caught between them. If I step out of the car, I choose Mom. If I stay put, I choose Gran. Am I even supposed to choose at all? There are no answers waiting to be whispered in my ear. There is only doubt and tangles and the worry that I may choose wrong, that I may have to choose at all. And then I wonder, looking out at my mother, if in twenty years that could be me, on the wrong side of the glass, looking in at her, full of anger and bitterness. 

Gran drives away. She leaves my mother standing on the curb. 

"That wasn't necessary," I inform Gran. 

"I don't know what you're talking about." 

"You didn't have to be mean." 

Gran chuckles, light and breathless. "I wasn't mean at all," she says. 

"You could have been nicer though," I point out. 

"I'll speak nicely to Fay when she speaks nicely to me." 

I doubt that's going to happen. Ever. If Gran made the effort, if she took the lead and led differently, things could change. Gran could turn everything around. If she only tried. "Don't you want to get along with Mom?" I ask Gran. 

"Fay is impossible." 

That isn't an answer at all. Or maybe it is. 

I think of what Mom told me yesterday, all the terrible things, disjointed but strung together. I think of what Gran's mother said to Mom. "Is that how your mother spoke to you?" I ask. 

"My mother hardly spoke to me at all. I told you before, I hardly ever saw her." 

"But did you argue with her like how you and Mom argue?" 

"I don't know," Gran answers, exasperated. "Why does this matter? My mother's been dead for years. She was my mother and I was her chattel and that was all years and years ago." 

Her _what_? I knit my brow together and glance over at Gran, who has her eyes focused on the road, gripping the steering wheel tightly, giving away that my questions annoy her more than she can willingly admit. But did I mishear her? Did she say child or chattel? What is a chattel? I've never had that word on any of my vocabulary tests in English. 

"These are just things I'd like to know about," I tell Gran. 

"Well, they aren't things I care to discuss, so you're out of luck," Gran replies and turns into the parking lot of First Methodist. 

I'm feeling majorly annoyed. Why must she be so difficult? Even my mother gives more than this. I push enough and I get something, but with Gran, I push and push and push and get nothing except a wall built up around me, blocking me out, blocking me in. 

Since I'm irritated, I ask, "How long have you been driving?" 

"Forever." 

Gran was in such an agreeable mood two days ago. Now she's simply vexing. Maybe it's my fault. Maybe I shouldn't have jumped on her about my mother. Some things should be allowed to pass. 

"I'm sorry," I tell her as we cross the parking lot. 

"For what?" 

"For what I said in the car, of course." 

"There's no need to be sorry,' Gran replies. "They were only words." And then she sets her hand on the small of my back as we travel up the front walk. 

Mari's waiting for me on the First Methodist sign, the same as always. Not the same as always, Dawn Schafer's sitting next to her, kicking her feet back against the sign. Mari frowns at me as I approach, accusing me with her eyes, as if I am the one who told Dawn to sit there. I say goodbye to Gran and then veer toward Mari and Dawn. 

"Hello!" I greet them, brightly. "Mari! I love your shirt! Excellent selection today." 

Mari glances down at the electric blue shirt she has buttoned halfway up over a white tank dress. She doesn't smile or appear pleased at my compliment. She pushes her glasses up her nose and says, "Thanks, Grace," in an unconvincing tone. 

"Why are you wearing your glasses?" I ask her. 

"My eyes itch. okay?" 

Is everyone grumpy today? 

I turn toward Dawn. "Hello," I say. "Been to the Rosebud lately to visit your paramour?" 

"Nope," Dawn replies and hops off the sign. "I'm waiting for you, so you can throw another temper tantrum." 

"You thought that was a tantrum? That was nothing." 

"I have no idea what you two are talking about," Mari interjects, peevishly. 

"Sorry, Mar," I apologize, starting toward the back of the church. "How are you? What have you been up to?" 

"Nothing," she replies, unenthusiastically. "What are you doing after church? Do you want to play tennis? We haven't played in a long time. We can go to your grandmother's." 

I hesitate. Mari and I play tennis at Gran's quite often, especially during the summer. Gran doesn't mind. At least I think she doesn't. Sometimes it's hard to tell. "I don't think so today," I tell Mari, as I push open the door to our classroom. "Gran isn't feeling well." 

"She looked fine to me." 

"She's had terrible headaches lately," I say and it isn't even a lie. Gran's had plenty of headaches. So, technically, I'm not lying, which is good since lying in church is worse than lying other places. 

"It's because she's an insomniac," Dawn explains to Mari. "Mrs. McCracken doesn't sleep. She stays up in her attic. I saw her up there again on Friday night." 

Mari suddenly appears interested. "What's in the attic?" she asks Dawn. 

"Nothing," I reply. 

"We don't know," Dawn tells Mari, ignoring my comment. Dawn takes a seat in the front row and Mari sits down beside her, completely oblivious that she's not given Dawn permission. "I want to find out though. Mrs. McCracken's pretty strange, even though Grace won't admit it, and there's no telling what she may be doing up there." 

"Oh...Mrs. McCracken's not really strange," Mari says in a hesitant and unsure voice, so that I know she's not sincere. "Have you asked her what's in the attic? Maybe we can go up there." 

_We_? I raise an eyebrow at Mari from where I sit on Dawn's other side. Since when is she so accepting of new people? And since when does she care what someone else has locked away in their house? I don't go rattling around in her family's business. 

And my grandmother is _not_ strange. 

"Are you busy tomorrow?" Dawn asks Mari. "Maybe Mrs. McCracken will feel better tomorrow and we can go over. I live right across the street. I'm staying with my grandparents." 

"Why haven't you gone home yet?" I ask her, snappishly. 

Dawn turns to look at me. "Nowhere in Stoneybrook is my home," she says and then returns her focus to Mari. 

"I'm not doing anything tomorrow," Mari says. "We can go over around lunchtime and we'll make lunch. Mrs. McCracken lets Grace and I use her kitchen all the time." Mari has a weird obsession with using other people's kitchens. 

Dawn nods. "Sometimes old people fall asleep after they eat. We can sneak up to the attic." 

And it's like I'm not even sitting here. I scowl at them a moment, but neither notices. I angle my body away and cross my legs and open my bible over my knee. I tune them out. If they're going to ignore me, I can ignore them right back. 

By the time youth group ends, Dawn and Mari are full of plans and practically giddy with excitement. I don't see why they care so much about what's in the attic. _I_ don't care. There's probably nothing up there except boxes of dusty old books. They will be disappointed and I'll have to exert a lot of self-control to not say, _I told you so._ And I'll likely say it anyway. 

Dawn, Mari, and I walk back out front together. The church service has already let out and Gran's waiting on the steps with Mr. and Mrs. Porter. Gran looks in perfectly good spirits, brushing her hair from her face, and laughing at something Mr. Porter has said. Mari's parents stand in the distance, chatting with the minister and a small group of people. Mari rushes straight for them, barely glancing back at Dawn and I, barely calling out that she'll call me later. 

"She's odd," Dawn comments, adjusting her purse strap on her shoulder. It's a multicolored knit purse, hanging low to her knee. I would never carry it, but it's almost cute. I wouldn't let Dawn know I think that though. 

"She's Mari," I reply and walk off toward Gran and the Porters. I slip in next to Gran. "I'd like to stay for the next service," I inform her. 

She glances over at me and smiles. "All right," she says with a nod. She never minds sitting through the same sermon twice. 

We say goodbye to Dawn and her grandparents and then Gran and I go inside the chapel. We sit in one of the middle pews and throughout the sermon, Gran stares straight ahead with one of her distant, dreamy expressions. Sometimes I wonder how much of the sermon she actually hears. I can't quite read that expression. I wonder what goes on inside her head, the places she goes and the things she thinks about, if she's remembering or forgetting. The moment the sermon ends, however, she picks up her purse and stands, ready to go. Maybe she listens after all. 

Gran suggests we go back to her house for lunch, but I don't feel like going there. I'm not sure I'll be able to go there tomorrow either. Now that I know the things that happened there long ago, I'll never look around the house and feel the same. I'll never walk up the stairs and not think of Gran coming down them or hanging over the railing, screaming and then not screaming, and I wonder which is worse, the fear or its absence. I'd like to talk to Gran about it. But I don't know if she'd talk back. 

Gran's agreeable mood has returned because when I suggest Uncle Ed's, the chinese restaurant downtown, she says, "All right," and leaves it at that. The restaurant is crowded and we have to wait twenty minutes for a table. I wait impatiently, tapping my foot and checking my wristwatch, and sighing. Gran sits very still and stares out the window. She doesn't mind the wait at all. I don't envy her unending patience. I like instant results and I deserve them. 

I stick to safe topics during lunch. As often is the case, I do most of the talking while Gran nods and smiles vaguely and occasionally comments. Sometimes I don't mind. Sometimes it's very awkward. After lunch, Gran drives me home and we say goodbye. I don't tell her that Dawn and Mari intend to storm her house tomorrow. I'll think about allowing that and then call Gran later. Hopefully, I can gauge her reaction over the phone. When I walk into my house, I find my mother lying on the couch with her arm draped across her eyes. On the coffee table beside her are two wine bottles and a wine glass with several drips of red wine collected on the bottom and my mother's lipstick on the rim. Behind her, just off the living room, I see my father in the office through the closed glass doors, leaning back in his chair, talking on the phone. 

I wonder if Mom has passed out. 

I come into the living room and stand at the end of the couch, holding my styrofoam container of chinese food and watching her. I'm uncertain what I should do. My mother drinks and drinks, but rarely passes out. She holds her liquor well. 

"Mom?" I whisper and nudge the toe of her tennis shoe. 

Mom stirs. Her arm raises from across her eyes and she stares up at me. "Oh...hello, Grace," she says, tiredly. "I was just resting my eyes." 

"Are you okay?" I ask her. 

"Of course." 

I don't let my eyes drift to the bottles. I don't let myself look to see how empty they both are. Instead, I only look at my mother. "Do you want some chinese food?" I offer and hold out the container. 

"Did my mother pay for that?" 

"Yes." 

Mom sits up and waves her hand. "I don't want anything that woman paid for," she says and swings her long legs onto the floor. She reaches for a wine bottle and pours another glass. 

I watch her and don't say anything. 

Mom raises the glass to her lips and extends her other hand to me. She snaps her fingers and swallows. "Let me see what you have," she commands. 

I hand over the container and she opens it and picks through my leftovers. She doesn't seem to mind that the sweet and sour pork is mostly cold or that the walnut shrimp is a lot cold. I sit down at the other end of the couch, setting my purse and bible on the coffee table with her wine bottles, and watch her eat. I wonder if she's been on the couch since I left, laying around and drinking. Certainly if that were true she'd be through more than two bottles. 

"Who is Dad talking to?" I ask Mom, looking behind her at Dad. 

"Alla," Mom replies in her bitter voice. "Of course." 

I let that hang in the air for awhile, waiting until it evaporates and then say, "I'm sorry about earlier." 

Mom doesn't respond. She doesn't even look at me. 

Upstairs, my telephone rings. I spring up off the couch and hurry for the stairs, eager to leave my mother behind on the couch, picking through cold chinese food and brooding. Maybe I am selfish. Maybe I should stay with her and watch her brood. But instead, I run up the stairs and thrown myself across the bed and reach for the phone. 

"Hello?" I say. 

"This is Emily." 

"Hello, Emily. How was Stamford? Did you have a thrilling time with your bizarro relations?" 

"No," Emily replies and pauses. "I mean, no because we didn't go. We didn't go to Stamford on Friday night. My dad didn't want to. He didn't feel well, so we stayed home. Julie and Paul came over though and my mother made rosemary chicken, which isn't _my_ favorite meal, but it pleased my father. Then we played trivial pursuit and Julie won every game, of course. My father would win in about two seconds flat except he can't answer any of the sports questions." 

"That sounds so fun," I say with a hint of sarcasm. "Please invite me next time." 

"Oh, I will," Emily promises, picking up on my sarcasm. "Actually, I'm calling to invite you over right now. Julie's here. Well, she's here somewhere. I feel really bad about what happened at Stacey's the other night and I want to make up for that. I thought the five of us could hang out over here." Emily pauses for a moment. "I already talked to Stacey and Mary Anne though. Stacey suggested we come over to her house. I don't understand why they never want to come over here." 

"I don't know," I say, lamely, even though I could tell Emily _exactly_ why. She's a smart girl. She should be able to figure it out for herself. 

"I'm miffed at them now," Emily continues, "They have no problem coming over here when it's time to use the hot tub. So, I don't even know if they're coming. You'll come over though, right?" 

I don't answer right away. It's a dilemma. Quickly, I weigh the pros and cons in my head and finally say, "Yes. I'll come over." After all, it's not Emily's fault that her parents are freaks of nature who weird out the entire town. 

"Great! Come over whenever you're ready!" Emily exclaims and hangs up. 

I roll off the bed and go into my bathroom to freshen up. Then I return downstairs. Mom's no longer in the living room. Instead, she's in the office with Dad, who's off the phone, and the office doors are wide open. 

"You're spending far too much time with Alla," Mom is telling Dad. Her voice is edgy and sharp. "You've had lunch together eight times in the last month. I checked your day planner." 

"I'll assign her to work with someone else for awhile," Dad replies. 

"Thank you," Mom says and walks out of the office. 

"I'm going over to Emily's for the afternoon," I tell her, but Mom keeps walking. It's like she didn't even hear me. 


	16. Chapter 16

Much to my displeasure, Mrs. Bernstein answers when I ring the doorbell at Emily's house. She doesn't greet me as a normal person would. Instead, she takes one look at me and asks, "What's on your face?" 

"They're Chanel." 

"How glamorous," Mrs. Bernstein replies and steps aside, holding the front door open. "The color of your dress looks lovely with your hair." 

I don't thank her. I wait. 

"But there isn't very _much_ of your dress," she continues, shutting the door. "Does your mother know you're wearing it?" 

"She bought it for me," I tell Mrs. Bernstein and can't believe I'm being insulted about my fashion sense by a woman in a mid-calf length jean skirt and a cable knit sweater. It's summertime, for crying out loud. 

"I guess your mother spent so much on the sunglasses that she couldn't afford to buy you a whole dress." 

"Maybe you could cut off part of your skirt and sew it onto my dress for me then," I suggest. 

"I could do that," Mrs. Bernstein replies. "I'll get my tape measure." 

"You know what? That's okay." 

"It's your choice," Mrs. Bernstein says and doesn't even pause before jumping to a new topic. "I saw your father at the A&P this morning," she tells me. "How is your mother? Is she taking her pills?" 

"Of course she's taking her pills." 

"I know she doesn't always. She should be better about that. She needs to take better care of herself." 

"I'll tell her you said so." 

"Please do. Emily and Julie are in the kitchen with Bernie. You know the way," she says and then turns and walks away, heading up the stairs. 

I roll my eyes at her retreating back. I was lucky. Usually, conversations with Mrs. Bernstein are much longer and much more annoying. I cross through the foyer and push through the door into the Bernstein's kitchen. Emily and Julie are seated at the kitchen table with Mr. Bernstein and there's a puzzle spread out in its center. Emily and Julie turn around when they hear me enter, but Mr. Bernstein keeps his head down, so all I see of him is the black and dark gray of his hair. 

"Hello!" Emily and Julie chorus together. 

"Hello," I reply, coming into the kitchen. I whip off my sunglasses and slip them into a pocket of my purse. I drop the purse on an empty chair. "Hello, Mr. Bernstein," I say to him. I might as well be polite. 

Mr. Bernstein looks up. He stares at me a moment with his mouth partially open. "Hello," he finally says and then he smiles. Much like how his wife does not greet guests like a normal person, Mr. Bernstein does not smile like a normal person. It looks more like he's baring his teeth and the corners of his mouth don't turn upward. In my opinion, Mr. Bernstein greatly resembles a woodchuck. 

"What are you guys doing?" I ask, standing beside the table between Emily and her father. I glance down at the puzzle they're working on. It's solid orange. 

"My uncle gave this to me," Emily explains, snapping a piece into place near a corner. "He found it at an airport in Detroit. He was so excited - it's only one color!" 

I don't even have to ask which uncle this is. "Oh, yes," I say to her. "Uncle Malcolm and his color thing. Does he still only wear blue shirts?" 

"No!" Emily cries. "He has a girlfriend now and she keeps buying him shirts in different colors. He feels obligated to wear them." 

The entire Bernstein family is full of freaks. 

"Sit down," Emily commands. 

I slide into the chair beside her and push aside a few scattered puzzle pieces, so I can rest my arms on the tabletop. Emily and Julie are each working on a large corner of the puzzle, but Mr. Bernstein, who has his head down again, appears to have already finished half of the puzzle. I watch the three of them for awhile. What a boring way to spend a Sunday afternoon. 

"How has your day been, Grace?" Emily asks me. 

"Fine," I answer. "I went to church and then to lunch with my grandmother. I saw Dawn at church. She's not really mad about the Rosebud, I think." 

"Good," says Emily, snatching a puzzle piece out of her father's hand. "Logan's a jerk." 

"He is," I agree. "So, Dawn and Mari have decided they're coming over to Gran's tomorrow to uncover what she's hiding in her attic." 

"Maybe she has Mrs. Rochester in her attic," Julie suggests and Mr. Bernstein chuckles. 

"_Who_?" I demand. 

"Oh," Julie says. "I guess _Jane Eyre_ was only on the advanced class's reading list." 

I scowl at her. "You know I don't understand your little literary jokes," I say, testily. 

"I don't understand it either," Emily says, even testier than me. She punches Julie in the shoulder. "You know I haven't read that one yet. You promised not to ruin the surprise!" Then she leans across the table and punches her father's shoulder, too. "And that's for giving her positive reinforcement!" Emily shouts and sits back down. "Besides, I thought we established that Mrs. McCracken is a murderous necrophiliac?" 

I groan and press my hand to my forehead. Not this nonsense again! 

"Ah, don't be ashamed, Grace," Julie says, lightly. "Your grandmother is following in the footsteps of Emily Grierson, my favorite literary heroine." 

"I know that's who we named our Emily after," Mr. Bernstein says without looking up. 

"Dad!" Emily exclaims. "You're being so silly today!" 

Mr. Bernstein smiles. 

But at the table. 

I decide it's necessary to change the subject. The three of them could probably go on and on about this topic for another hour. "Does anyone know what chattel is?" I ask. 

Julie doesn't hesitate. "A herd of cows," she replies. 

"She didn't say 'cattle', you goof!" Emily laughs. "You're in advanced English? Mr. Grainier should throw you out!" 

"Chattel is personal property," Mr. Bernstein explains, although he doesn't look at me while saying it. "Property that can be moved from place to place. Like a car or a couch." 

"Or a cow," Julie points out. 

"Or a cow," Mr. Bernstein agrees. 

"Oh," I say, quietly. "Thank you." I stare down at me folded arms, their stark whiteness against the dark wood table. From the corners of my eyes, I see fingers locking orange puzzle pieces together, making them whole and connected. My mind is turning. It's turning over this new piece I have learned. It isn't fitting into place. 

"There's my favorite chattel now," Mr. Bernstein says, finally looking up from the table as the kitchen door swings open. 

Mrs. Bernstein freezes in the doorway and stares at us. "Your _what_?" she exclaims in that crabby voice of hers. 

"Don't worry," Julie assures her. "He didn't call you a cow." 

"Thank you, Julie, but I know what 'chattel' means," Mrs. Bernstein replies, coming into the kitchen. "I just didn't realize _I_ was chattel." 

"You're movable," Mr. Bernstein responds. 

"Well, Bernard, I give you permission to inspect my teeth any time," Mrs. Bernstein tells him and stops beside the table, surveying the progress on the puzzle. 

"Dad's practically finished the whole thing," Emily says, crossly. 

"My smart husband," Mrs. Bernstein says and moves away from the table to one of the sinks. The Bernsteins have two sinks in their kitchen. They have two of everything - two sinks, two dishwashers, two refrigerators, two sets of pots and pans and dishes. Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein are fanatical about keeping a kosher kitchen. It kills them that Emily eats in non-kosher homes. 

Emily reaches down and plucks a book off the empty chair between her and Julie. I didn't see the book when I tossed my purse there. It's a cookbook, thick with a shiny new dust jacket. Emily slides off her chair and approaches her mother at the sink. "Mom?" she says and Mrs. Bernstein turns around. "Will you make these for us?" she asks her mother. "Julie and I were looking through your cookbooks. We want to try these cookies. Grace does, too." 

I raise an eyebrow. Emily ignores the look. 

Mrs. Bernstein takes the cookbook from Emily and scans the page. "Yes," she says, running a finger across the page. "I can make these. But I don't think I have all the ingredients." 

"That's okay," Emily replies. "Dad will go to the store. Dad! You need to go to the A&P!" 

Mr. Bernstein pushes back from the table and stands. "Okay," he agrees and joins them at the sink. "What do you need, Marian?" 

"I'll make you a list." 

"I don't need a list. Just tell me and I'll remember. I remember everything. You know that." 

"You do not remember everything. Two weeks ago, I sent you to the store and you brought back dark brown sugar instead of light." 

I check my wristwatch. Yes. It is about time for another fight. I knew they were both in too good of moods for either to last long. 

"I couldn't read your handwriting," Mr. Bernstein argues. 

"You couldn't tell the difference between the words 'light' and 'dark'?" 

"Dad!" Emily cries, sliding in between her parents. "Just let her make a list!" 

Mr. Bernstein glances from Emily to Mrs. Bernstein and then nods and lowers his gaze to the floor. He stands like that beside the counter, watching Mrs. Bernstein write out his list. When it's done, she tucks the list inside the pocket of his green plaid shirt and pats it. "Don't forget to look at it," she reminds him and Mr. Bernstein nods and goes out the door to the garage. I sort of feel sorry for him, but then remember that really, this is his own fault. Ten minutes in her company should have told him that life with Mrs. Bernstein would be a neverending nightmare. 

"Let's go up to my room," Emily suggests, shoving her chair back under the table. "Don't touch our puzzle, Mom!" 

"I won't." 

I grab my purse off the chair and follow behind Emily and Julie, grateful to escape. Emily leads us up the staircase, the staircase we are _forbidden_ to play on, like we're seven years old instead of seventeen and sixteen. Ridiculous rules. Emily leads us down the hallway, or as I privately refer to it, the Walk Of Emily. I've never seen so many photos of one person on display. It's saccharine and sickening. Emily as a baby when her father's hair was still all black and her mother's hair reached her thighs, Emily in elementary school with glasses and missing teeth, Emily as she is today in neat pressed blouses and neatly styled hair. Emily is everywhere. 

Inside her room, Emily throws herself down on her bed, kicking her legs back into the air and Julie follows suit, falling right beside Emily, where she always is. I sit down on Emily's window seat, which has a yellow and white-striped cushion and the view overlooks Rosedale Road. Emily's bedroom fits her. It's orderly and serious, but at the same time comfortable and sunny and light, all in pale yellows and soft whites. 

I pick up the end of a curtain and study it. The middle is shredded to pieces. "What happened to your curtains?" I ask, perplexed. 

"Oh, apparently, the cats had a really good time while we were away," Emily explains. "That's why my mother's making new ones for me. We were going to order the curtains from Bellair's or Karberger's, but I didn't like anything in the catalogues. So, my mother is just making them, so I get exactly what I want. She doesn't like to sew, but she'll do it. Do you want to see the curtains? She's halfway finished. They're in her room." 

"I'll wait to see the finished product," I reply. I've been in the Bernsteins' bedroom before and it weirds me out. "I want to see them hanging up. I'm not good at envisioning these things." 

"Oh. Okay," Emily says and rolls onto her side, biting her bottom lip, and propping herself onto an elbow. "It's been a very good day," she informs me. "My father is having a very good day. He's finally over that dumbness with Mrs. Hoffman." 

I'd forgotten about that. "Yes, I noticed," I say because I know that's what she wants to hear, that I noticed and I agree and her father is just fine. "So, what happened with Mrs. Hoffman? Did your mother kick her ass?" 

"No, but she told Mrs. Hoffman to keep her breasts in her shirt and out of my dad's face and her hands off his beard. I think there was more, but Mom wouldn't tell me. I don't know exactly what Mrs. Hoffman said to him. Mom wouldn't tell me that either." 

"I think we can all imagine," Julie says, rolling onto her back. 

"Yeah, really," I agree. "Your mom should have kicked her ass. Mrs. Hoffman is so tacky. She wears frosted lipstick." 

Emily giggles. "Well, that's some kind of reason, I guess," she says. "I'm sure my mother caused quite the scene. You know how she gets. She doesn't like people picking on my father. She won't allow it." 

Yes, because Mrs. Bernstein's the only one allowed to pick on Mr. Bernstein. 

But I don't say that. I keep it to myself. 

"Can I ask you guys a question?" I inquire, lifting my legs onto the window seat so I am sideways, knees bent, arms resting on them. 

Emily looks at me curiously and nods. Julie's still on her back, head hanging off the bed, so her blonde ponytail gathers on the carpet at the ends. She waves her hand, indicating her permission. 

"Has your father ever hit your mother?" 

"No!" Emily exclaims. "_My_ father? Are you kidding me? He almost cries when he accidentally steps on the cats' tails!" 

"If my father hit my mother," Julie says, "she'd hit him back twice as hard." 

Emily waits a moment and then asks, "Why...did your father hit your mother?" 

"Of course not," I reply, more snappishly then I intend. I sound defensive. I don't sound believable. "I'm not talking about my parents," I say, calmly. 

Emily looks doubtful. "Are you sure?" 

"Of course I'm sure," I insist, regretting opening this topic. I should have known better. I should have kept my thoughts for myself. "I'm not talking about my parents. I'm talking about someone my mother told me about. It's someone that she knows." And that is not a lie. It is almost the whole truth, in fact. "Is that what you think my parents are like? They're not." 

"Well, we don't really know your parents," Emily points out. "We never see them." 

I scowl at her, briefly, then wipe it from my face. I make my face impassive. Emily doesn't understand. "Well, I'm not talking about my parents," I say for the third time. "I am sorry I brought it up." 

"Don't be sorry," Julie replies, still upside down. "We believe you. I don't think your mother would put up with that." 

I don't think she would either. At least I hope not. She is very different from Gran. "Why would anyone put up with that?" I ask Emily and Julie. I want to understand. I really do. And I can't simply come out and ask Gran. 

"I don't know," Julie answers. 

"I don't know either," Emily says, pulling herself up into a sitting position. She folds her legs indian-style and rests her hands on her knees. She lifts her shoulders. 

I guess I didn't really expect them to. 

I glance out the window, thinking, everything still turning and crashing inside my head. Outside, I see Mr. Bernstein's car pull up the driveway and into the garage. "Your dad's home," I inform Emily. 

"It's about time! Now Mom can start our cookies. Julie and I found the greatest recipe in Mom's cookbook. It's chocolate cookies with cream cheese in the middle and chopped cherries and pecans on top." 

"The picture looked delectable," says Julie. 

"Sounds interesting," I respond and glance out the window again just in time to see Mr. Bernstein backing out of the driveway. "Your father should stop bragging about that memory of his," I tell Emily. "He's leaving again." 

Emily sits still a moment, not reacting, and then slides off the bed and walks out the door. We hear her on the stairs, footfalls fast and noisy. 

"He never checks the list," Julie says and finally raises herself up. Her ponytail is a mess and she pulls out the band and runs her fingers through her blonde hair like a comb. 

Emily reappears through the doorway. "He forgot the cream cheese," she says. "She isn't even mad though. She won't need it for a while. She's starting the batter right now." 

"Good. I'm hungry!" Julie cries. Julie's always hungry. I think she only comes over to Emily's house for the food. 

"Do you want to stay for dinner, Grace?" Emily offers. "My mother's making cheese enchiladas. I would call to invite Stacey and Mary Anne, too, but I guess they aren't interested in hanging out with us today. They never even told me if they were for sure not coming over this afternoon," Emily says with agitation in her voice. 

I hesitate. Meals with Emily's parents are always awkward and uncomfortable. I turn down a lot of Emily's invitations. But I'm already here and I don't have a good reason to not stay and she's already agitated enough, as it is. "Yes. I'll stay. If it's all right with your parents." 

"Oh, they won't care," Emily replies much happier. 

Out of the corner of my eye, outside the window, I see something move. I turn my head, slightly, and then shriek, startled, nearly falling off the window seat. 

Paul Stern is laying on a branch of the magnolia tree outside Emily's window. 

"Julie!" I shout. "Your brother!" 

"Hello, darling," he says to me through the open window. He smiles at Emily. "Hello, sweetheart. We're having cheese enchiladas for dinner?" 

"What are you doing in that tree, Pollyanna?" Julie demands. 

"Sneaking in from the carnival," Paul answers. "Shh. Don't tell Aunt Polly." 

If I weren't so irritated, I might laugh. "Aunt Polly's downstairs in the kitchen and she won't be pleased to learn you're spying on us." 

"Paul Stern!" Emily yells at him. "Is this what you do? Climb up in my tree and spy on me?" 

Paul smiles, slyly. "Mostly at night. I come to your window and wait by the light of the moon." 

"You are such a little freak," I tell him. 

"Get out of my tree!" Emily barks at Paul and then jumps off the bed and runs to her open doorway, leaning out into the hall. "Mom!" she bellows. "Paul Stern's in my tree, staring in my window and watching me undress!" 

I hear the kitchen door swing open downstairs and bang against the wall. "What are you shouting about, Emily Elaine?" Mrs. Bernstein calls back. 

Emily repeats herself. 

"Why are you undressing with the window open?" Mrs. Bernstein yells. 

Emily throws her arms in the air. "_That's_ what my mother worries about?" 

The front door opens and closes and a moment later, Paul glances down at the ground. "Aunt Polly?" he asks in a perplexed tone. 

"Paul Stern, how many times do I have to tell you to stay out of our trees?" comes Mrs. Bernstein's crabby voice. "Get down from that tree right now before I knock you out with a rock!" 

"I don't think you could hit me," Paul replies. 

Below, Mrs. Bernstein begins searching the flower beds for a rock. She's so weird that I suspect she may actually throw one at him. 

Emily and Julie are now crowded at the window with me. "Do it, Mrs. Bernstein!" Julie calls down to her. "Hey, Paul! Mom's on her way!" 

Our heads whip around to the east end of Rosedale Road and Mrs. Stern is indeed crossing the street at a slow and leisurely pace, holding a coffee mug in one hand and a magazine in the other. I notice she's back to wearing skirts again. 

When Mrs. Stern reaches the Bernsteins' front lawn, she stops underneath the tree and stares up at Paul. "Are you supposed to be up there?" she asks. "Because Marian has a rock and I think it may be intended for you." 

"You won't let her throw a rock at me, will you, Mom?" 

"If Marian thinks it's necessary, then it's fine with me." 

Paul looks down at his mother and then back at us in the window. He grins. "I have to go now," he apologizes. "There's no way she's going to hit me with that rock. She'll probably end up hitting one of you in the face. No worries. I won't let that happen," and Paul begins climbing down the magnolia and then drops back to the ground. 

"There's never a dull moment at your house," I say to Emily, dryly. 

"We're very exciting people." 

"Certainly. What with all your solid color puzzle construction and rousing games of trivial pursuit." 

"Don't knock the puzzle," Julie protests. "It's a gift from my future husband." 

I roll my eyes. "He didn't give it to _you_," I point out. "And didn't you hear? _He has a girlfriend_. An appropriately aged girlfriend, who apparently doesn't mind his color fixation." I turn to Emily. "Do you think she's seen his closet?" I ask. 

Emily purses her lips. "A lot of people organize their clothes by color." 

I point a finger at her. "But how many go as far as to organize by shades of black?" I raise an eyebrow. 

"So?" Julie replies, coolly. "Mr. Bernstein irons his underwear." 

"Julie! You aren't supposed to tell people that!" 

I burst out laughing. "Are you serious? Does he iron his socks, too?" I clasp a hand over my mouth when I see Emily's face. I laugh harder behind my hand. Her father _does_ iron his socks. 

Emily thrusts her nose into the air and looks away. 

"What's so funny?" asks Mrs. Stern, coming in through the open doorway. I never even heard her on the stairs. 

"I hope you sent Paul home," I say, grouchily. 

"No. He's in the kitchen foraging through the pantry for food. I wish he wouldn't do that, but Marian..." Mrs. Stern waves her hand and rolls her eyes. "So, what's so funny?" Mrs. Stern asks again, sitting down in Emily's desk chair. 

Julie laughs. "Grace just found out about Mr. Bernstein's ironing fetish." 

Mrs. Stern presses her finger to her lips. "Shh...he's downstairs in the kitchen. Don't let him hear you laughing about that. And don't let Marian hear you either." 

"Thank you, Mrs. Stern," Emily says, loftily. 

I look out the window and roll my eyes. Then I turn back to the room. "Mrs. Stern, you're wearing a skirt," I observe. 

Mrs. Stern glances down at her green and purple silk skirt. "Yes," she says, woefully. "No one will give me a definitive answer on which makes my butt look especially large - pants or skirts. Marian wants to take Polaroids, but my heart cannot handle that. Neither can my ego." Mrs. Stern sighs. "And I know it's getting bigger." 

"Don't worry, Mom," Julie says. "You make the rocking world go round." 

Mrs. Stern laughs. 

"Jeanie, are you talking about your rear end again?" comes Mrs. Bernstein's voice from out in the hall. She stops in Emily's doorway. "I left your son in my kitchen with Bernie and I don't think that's wise. Come, I'll show you Emily's curtains very quickly," she says and then vanishes down the hall. 

Mrs. Stern stands and smiles. "Have fun, girls," she tells us and leaves the room, pulling the door shut behind her. 

"You have a fun mother," I say to Julie. 

"Oh, I guess she's all right," Julie says with a laugh, leaning back against Emily's headboard. She pauses in her laughter. "You have a beautiful mother," she tells me. "Even moreso than Stacey's mother. But don't tell Stacey that. And Emily, your mother is very funny." 

I don't think I've ever heard Mrs. Bernstein say anything remotely "funny". Obnoxious and rude, yes. Funny, no. 

"Grace's mother _is_ beautiful," Emily agrees. She pauses. "And she seems really nice, too." 

"Thank you," I say and cross my legs, looking down at them. 

Emily doesn't say anything for a moment and then finally asks, "Do you guys want to watch a video?" 

"Sure," Julie says because Julie always wants to do whatever Emily suggests. 

I shrug. "That's fine." 

We watch one of Emily's Corrie Lalique videos. Emily has every one. It's one of Corrie's earlier movies and not very good. Luckily, it's only an hour and a half long. When the credits roll and Julie presses the rewind button, Emily glances at the clock and asks, irritably, "Where's my mother with those cookies?" 

"Let's go see," Julie suggest, sliding off the bed. 

The three of us trek down the stairs and into the kitchen where we find Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein. Apparently, Mrs. Stern has left and Paul, too. Although, it's likely he's still lurking around somewhere, hiding in the Bernstein's broom closet or inside the trash can. Mr. and Mrs. Bernsteins' backs are to us. Mr. Bernstein's washing the counter, lathering it heavy with soap, his arm making small circles on the tile, pressing hard and deep. Mrs. Bernstein several feet away, pushing chopped cherries and pecans into the cream cheese atop the cookies. 

"Finally!" Emily exclaims, sidling up beside her mother. 

"It took longer for the cookies to cool than I anticipated," Mrs. Bernstein replies. "They had to be cool before I could put on the cream cheese." 

Emily rests her chin on her mother's shoulder. "I think you could have moved faster." 

"I think I could not." 

"Next time will you try?" 

"I will try," Mrs. Bernstein promises. "Now, please, take the milk glasses down from the cupboard. There is whole milk and low-fat in the refrigerator." Mrs. Bernstein begins moving the cookies off the cookie sheet and onto an empty green plate. She places them very precisely, first in the center and then around the edges and finally stacking them gingerly on top of one another. "Bernie," she says to her husband, "You may clean this part of the counter now," and she turns around toward Julie and I with the plate in her hands and carries it to us. "Don't spoil your dinner," she warns. 

"Um...we won't," I reply. 

"Thank you, Mrs. Bernstein," Julie says, taking the plate. 

"Thanks, Mom," Emily says, handing me a glass of milk and then one to Julie. She leads the way out of the kitchen, carrying her own glass, and leaving the open milk cartons on the kitchen table. We're crossing through the foyer when the doorbell rings. I almost groan, but realize it can't be Paul. He simply walks right in. Emily strides quickly to the front door and yanks it open. Stacey and Mary Anne stand on the porch. 

"Hi!" Emily greets them. 

"Hey," Stacey and Mary Anne echo back. 

"I didn't think you were coming," Emily says, stepping back from the doorway, allowing Stacey and Mary Anne to come inside. 

"You invited us," Stacey replies in a breezy sort of voice. Stacey doesn't mind coming to Emily's house. It's Mary Anne who objects. 

"Did your mom bake cookies?" Mary Anne asks, moving nearer to Julie. 

"Yes. We haven't tried them yet, but I know they're fantastic." 

"They are," Julie agrees through a mouthful of cookie. 

"She just shoved one in her mouth," I tell them and everyone laughs, light and faintly awkward, the other night still weighing gently on our minds. 

"I'm glad you decided to come over. Do you want to stay for dinner? My mother's making cheese enchiladas with rice and beans. My parents won't mind if you stay." 

Stacey and Mary Anne share a glance, their eyes lingering on each other. Mary Anne shrugs. 

"Sure..." Stacey says with a slow and small nod. "Sure." 

Emily smiles. "Great! This will make up for the other night. I'll tell my mother," she says and begins to walk away. "Mom! Stacey and Mary Anne are here!" she shouts and disappears into the kitchen. 

Mary Anne has covered her ears because Emily was right beside her. "All the shouting," she complains, quietly. 

"Especially Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein," I reply. 

Stacey looks confused. "I've never heard Mr. Bernstein shout." 

I raise my shoulders. That's what comes from a skillful avoidance of the Bernsteins. 

Emily reappears in the foyer. "It's fine. She said we can have all the enchiladas. They'll just make something else. She's bringing your milk, too. Did you want a snack, Stacey?" 

Stacey shakes her head. She's a diabetic and can't eat sweets. "Is there not enough food?" Stacey asks. "Because Mary Anne and I don't have to stay for dinner." 

"No. It's fine," Emily insists. "They don't mind." 

Mrs. Bernstein comes out of the kitchen with Stacey and Mary Anne's milk. She hands the glass in her right hand to Stacey and says, "Hello, Stacey. Low-fat," and then turns to Mary Anne, who takes a tiny step away from her. "Hello, Mary Anne," she says. "Whole," and hands over the glass. 

"Hello, Mrs. Bernstein," Stacey answers. "Thanks for the milk, but we don't have to stay for dinner. We don't want to inconvenience you." 

"It isn't an inconvenience," Mrs. Bernstein responds and disappears back into the kitchen without another word. 

"See?" Emily says. "We'll go to my room. Dinner won't be ready for another forty minutes, at least." Emily leads the way, charging across the living room, her glass held out in front of her. On the stairs, we have to step over one of Emily's cats who has taken up residence on one of the stairs, lounging on its back with its legs splayed open. It's the white one. Sassafras or Saffron or whatever. Emily has a fat black and white cat named Noxzema and that's the only cat whose name I remember at all times. Emily has too many cats. 

"What have you two been doing today?" I ask Stacey and Mary Anne when we're settled around Emily's room. I'm back on the window seat while Emily, Julie, and Mary Anne are squished onto Emily's bed around the plate of cookies. Stacey's in the desk chair, sipping her milk and watching us eat. I always wonder if it bothers her. I feel guilty sometimes, enjoying foods she cannot. I bite into my cookie and to Mrs. Bernstein's credit, it is delicious. 

"Not a lot," Stacey answers. "We didn't have to work at the Kid Center today, so we sat around the house in our pajamas until two. So did Mom. We made it a spa day and gave each other facials and hair treatments. Mom french braided our hair." Stacey turns her head, so we may admire her thick golden blonde braid. Mary Anne does the same, turning her head from side to side, the end of her dark braid swinging slightly. 

"I can french braid my own hair," I say. 

"Well, so can I," Stacey replies, giving me an odd look. 

"Really?" asks Julie. "I'm impressed. I can't do that." 

"Neither can I," Emily chimes in. She gathers a section of her chestnut-colored hair. "How do you do it? Someone come show me." 

Stacey and I spend the next half hour attempting to teach Emily and Julie how to braid their own hair. Mary Anne makes a feeble attempt at assistance, but her instructions make absolutely no sense. It really doesn't matter though because Emily and Julie are hopeless students. Emily doesn't listen and Julie skips steps. Their hair ends up in knots that Stacey, Mary Anne, and I must brush out. We've just finished setting their hair straight when Mrs. Bernstein calls us for dinner and we file out into the hall and down the stairs. I'm at the end and so I see Mary Anne casting wary looks over her shoulder at Stacey. 

The Bernsteins are standing in front of the meat refrigerator when we come into the kitchen. The other refrigerator is the dairy refrigerator. Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein are standing with both doors open, looking inside. "What would you like for dinner, Bernard?" Mrs. Bernstein is saying. "You may choose." 

Whatever Mr. Bernstein answers, it's much too soft for anyone else to hear. But Mrs. Bernstein leans forward and begins pulling things from the refrigerator and handing them to Mr. Bernstein. 

"Mom!" Emily cries, walking over to her. "We want to eat in my bedroom and not the dining room." 

"Your father already set the table though," Mrs. Bernstein replies, standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding a plate of raw fish filets. "But you may eat upstairs. Bring the plates and silverware back into the kitchen, please. I haven't set out the food yet. You may serve yourselves in here." 

When Emily and Julie leave the kitchen to fetch the things from the dining room, Mary Anne elbows Stacey, discreetly. Stacey then speaks up, "Mrs. Bernstein, are you _sure_ it's okay that we're eating over?" 

"Yes," Mrs. Bernstein answers without turning around. 

Stacey looks at me and I shrug. I don't understand the Bernsteins anymore than she does. I can't offer her any help. Stacey and Mary Anne exchange another unsure glance. Stacey then approaches Mr. Bernstein, who's standing at one of the sinks, slowly and methodically rinsing a head of lettuce. "You don't mind that we're eating your dinner?" she asks him. 

Mr. Bernstein shakes his head and smiles. "I don't mind," he says, quietly. He never looks up from the sink. 

"He doesn't mind," Emily says, marching back into the kitchen with an armful of plates. She shoves one at me. "Here you are. Come take this plate, Mary Anne. Don't just stand there. My mother's set the food out. You can serve yourselves." 

When we're upstairs in Emily's bedroom again, stretched out and eating, Mary Anne says, "Okay, this is completely edible." 

Stacey laughs. "Hey, _I_ liked our pasta. Of course, I love garlic." 

"So do I," Julie says. "I just don't love an entire field of garlic crushed on top of my dinner." 

We all laugh. 

"Well, you tried to pretend at least," Stacey comments, lifting a forkful of rice to her mouth. "Although, I think Mallory and Dawn truly liked the food. Unless Dawn's just a really awesome actress." 

Mary Anne snorts, but doesn't speak. 

"I think you should just make up with Dawn," Emily says, bluntly. "You're ruining your whole summer. Who wants to spend all their time bickering and being angry?" 

It's my turn to snort. Well, Emily should know. 

"I'm not ruining my summer," Mary Anne replies, picking at her enchilada. "Dawn and Sharon are. Dawn should go back to California. She doesn't want to be here. Sharon should go back to California, too. She doesn't want to be here either." 

We're silent for several stretching seconds. 

"Dawn can't go back," I finally say. "Her father took his new family to Europe for the summer." 

"Her dad sounds like a jerk," Julie says, simply. 

"He does," Stacey says, softly, and frowns down at the dinner she's hardly touched. She just holds it in her lap a minute and stares. She's thinking of her father and his new wife, his new family of only two. I am lucky because my father is not a jerk. He's a lot of things, but he isn't a jerk. 

"Can we not talk about Dawn please?" Mary Anne requests. She doesn't sound angry. Worn out, maybe. Worn out and beaten down by whatever is going on with her family. 

"Do you want to hear what my crazy brother did this afternoon?" Julie asks, not missing a beat. And the subject is changed that easily. 

We're interrupted by a very light knocking at the door. 

"Enter!" Emily calls out. 

The door cracks open and Mr. Bernstein peers in. He looks straight at Emily and not anyone else. "Grace's dad just called," he says. "He wanted to know if she's here." 

I _knew_ Mom wasn't listening. 

I am not embarrassed. I do not blush. "Oh. I guess I forgot to leave a note," I say to no one in particular. "Does he want me to come home?" I've been gone for _hours_. Did they just now notice? 

Mr. Bernstein shakes his head. "No. He was just looking for you," and then Mr. Bernstein smiles and shuts the door. 

"I should go home," I announce, standing up and gathering my purse. I hope they won't talk about me when I'm gone. "I'll take this downstairs to your mother," I tell Emily, picking up my plate. My dinner is mostly finished. "Thank you for inviting me over." 

"You're welcome. I wish you could stay longer." 

We say our goodbyes and I slip out the door and go downstairs. The Bernsteins are still in the kitchen, which now smells disgustingly like fish. I could vomit. There's nothing worse than the scent of fish. 

"Thank you for dinner," I tell Mrs. Bernstein, thrusting the plate at her. 

"You are welcome, Miss Blume," she replies, taking the plate. "Would you like some cookies to take home?" 

"No thanks. I'll see you later." 

I hurry out to my car and climb inside, turning over the engine and speeding away from the curb. It's a short drive back to my house. All the downstairs lights are on when I pull up the driveway and into the garage. Inside the house, I toss my purse onto the couch on my way to the office, where I know my parents are. The doors are open and Dad's at his desk, exactly where I last saw him hours ago. Mom's on her exercise bike, wheels spinning fast under the force of her pumping legs. 

"There you are!" Mom exclaims when I come into the office. 

"I told you I was going to Emily's house." 

"Did you? I don't remember that." 

"You didn't have to come home," Dad tells me. He taps several keys on the computer keyboard before looking over at where I stand. "We were just wondering where you were. We called Allison's and Mary Anne's and Stacey's. Maureen said you were probably at Emily's. And you were." 

"Yes, I was and I _told_ Mom I was going there." 

"Calm down," Mom says with an airy lightness. "We're not upset. We knew we would find you eventually." 

"It isn't a big deal," Dad adds. 

It _is_ a big deal. 

I whirl around and storm out of the office and back into the kitchen. I stomp around on the tile, around and around in circles. I slam the refrigerator door a few times and follow it up with several cabinets. Open. Close. Open. Close. Bam, bam, bam. 

And then I am fine. 

I return to the office and my parents haven't moved. 

"Feel better?" Mom asks. 

"Yes." 

"Good." 

"Will you french braid my hair?" 

"You know how to french braid your own hair," Mom replies. 

I leave the office. 

I spend the rest of the evening working on my lists. I work diligently and carefully, not forgetting any details. My mother gets a lot of entries this evening and they're all in the con column. Gran gets a con, too, for being mean to Mom. And she gets another con for refusing to admit her meanness. And another for not answering my questions. It's already been written forty or fifty times, but Emily's bossiness is added to her con column. Since the Bernsteins fed me dinner, I'm feeling a bit generous toward them. Mr. Bernstein receives a pro for making an attempt at humor, even if it did involve some book I've never read. Mrs. Bernstein bakes great cookies - pro. And she threatened to hit Paul Stern with a rock - pro. But then I add five cons to her list, so it's not like she's coming out ahead. 

Before I go to bed, I set my alarm clock. I'm startled when it wakes me at three-thirty in the morning. Nevertheless, I leap out of bed and pull on the sweat shorts and t-shirt I set out. I pull them on in a hurry and then twist my hair into a tight ponytail and tug on my sneakers. Downstairs, I hear the front door slam and I take off out of my room and down the stairs. My mother's halfway down the block when I catch her. 


	17. Chapter 17

I pull into Gran's driveway at five after twelve. Dawn, Mari, and I agreed last night over three-way calling to meet at Gran's around noon. That is something I never imagined - Dawn Schafer, Mari Drabek, and I on three-way. I also talked to Gran last night, of course, to ask her permission for us to come over. It was difficult to gauge her reaction. I knew it would be, as it's often tricky even in person because while her mouth smiles, her eyes don't give much away. Gran said, yes, certainly we could come over and use her kitchen and the tennis court. She said yes, but I am unsure what to expect from her. 

Gran comes out the front door as I'm pulling the grocery bags from the passenger side seat. She waves, her arms stretched high in the air, and smiles. It's a smile that reaches her eyes. She crosses toward me, the bounce in her step that's occasionally present. Sometimes I wonder how she does it, always manages to come through the front door the moment I arrive. She can't possibly be hovering by the front door, peering through the curtains and waiting. 

"Hello, dear," Gran calls to me, coming around the side of the Corvette. She brushes her hair from her face and then holds out her arms for a grocery bag. "Where are your friends?" 

"Mari's meeting me here," I answer, hoisting the second bag onto my hip while lifting my purse strap over my shoulder. "And Dawn said she'd be here when she gets here." Which is a really annoying promise to make. Maybe it's a California thing. "You don't mind us coming over?" 

"Of course not," Gran insists. "Although, I'm used to it being just you and Mari. I hope that with three of you, it won't be too noisy." 

"Um...don't worry about it. We'll keep it down," I promise. What does she think we'll be doing? Running through the house and screeching? We're not children. 

"What are you cooking?" Gran asks, peering into the bag in her arms. 

"Some grilled chicken taco salad that Mari came up with since, you know, Dawn won't eat red meat," I answer and roll my eyes before locking the car door and slamming it shut. "Mari makes some weird food suggestions sometimes, you know that. I just bought what she told me to buy." 

Gran's digging through the bag. "Maybe I'll wait to eat later," she remarks, her head down. "I'm not that hungry right now." 

"We aren't going to poison you." 

"I know, but some of these ingredients are odd. There are limes and oranges in here. In a salad with onions, beans, and avocados? I'm not that daring." 

"I thought the limes and oranges were odd, too," I agree, following Gran up the walk and then onto the porch. 

Inside the house, Gran and I go into the kitchen and begin unpacking the grocery bags. We line everything on an empty section of the counter. Mari will take over when she arrives. It's best not to mess with anything too much until she does. 

"What are the raspberries and blackberries for?" Gran asks me, picking up the container of raspberries. 

"Mari wants to make a berry cobbler." 

"Mari certainly is ambitious," Gran comments and sets the raspberries down again. She slides her hands into the pockets of her navy-colored slacks and leans back against the counter, surveying all that rests there. "I hope you girls intend to clean up after yourselves. I gave Brigitta the day off since you and your friends were coming over. I'm not cleaning up your mess." 

"We'll clean up," I promise. "Doesn't it annoy Brigitta that you keep telling her to not come in and do her work?" 

"No. Why should it? I'm paying her the same." 

Well, that makes no sense at all. But I let it pass. I remove the list Mari dictated to me over the phone from the pocket of my jean shorts. "You have salt and pepper, right?" I ask Gran as I read over the list. "Mari said freshly ground black pepper, but I suppose any old pepper will do." 

"There are salt and pepper shakers by the stove. I do have a pepper mill though. Mari will probably prefer that. She can grind the pepper herself," Gran says and reaches up to the cabinet above her head. I watch her open the cabinet with her right hand and reach inside with her left. On her right hand, on its ring finger, she has on a silver and pearl ring. On her left hand, there is nothing. She doesn't wear a wedding band or a diamond ring. I had noticed, of course, before. I simply never thought much of it. She spends so much time with her hands buried in the soil. Now, however, there is a new significance and I stare at her hands, thinking and wondering. 

"What are you staring at?" Gran asks me, setting the pepper mill on the counter. 

"Your hands," I answer, truthfully, and continue to stare. She has the same hands as my mother, slender fingers and delicate porcelain skin and oval-shaped nails. Her hands look younger than they should with only a few small age spots scattered over their lovely skin. I have the same hands, too. "You don't wear a wedding ring," I observe. 

"No. I don't," Gran agrees and turns away. She starts squeezing the avocados, gently, like it's an important and necessary task. "Sometimes I wear this though," Gran says, setting down the last avocado. She holds out her right hand to show me the pearl ring. "It's my birthstone. June." 

"I know when your birthday is. We went out for lunch, remember?" 

"Of course I remember. I'm not senile." 

"Oh, I know," I say, lightly, and regret my earlier tone. "I think pearls are beautiful," I tell Gran in a much kinder voice. I take her hand and study the ring. Her hand is cool, not warm like I expected. "My birthstone is garnet. Like Mom's." 

I wait for Gran to respond. 

She does not. 

"Mom told me she was supposed to be born in February," I finally say. 

I wait again. 

It takes Gran a few moments before she replies, in a tone as cool as her hand. "Yes, she was. Doctors were always getting those things wrong in those days. That was a long time ago. Fay is fifty-one years old. She only acts like a petulant child and surly teenager." And Gran slips her hand from my grip and back into the pocket of her slacks. 

"Mom gave me a pair of garnet earrings." 

"Oh?" 

"Dad bought them for her when I was born." 

"Harold's always buying her something," Gran replies. 

I pause a moment before speaking, turning my words over in my mind, selecting them with care. "Did Grandfather give you anything when Mom was born?" I ask, casually. 

"No." 

"Nothing at all?" 

"No." 

"Didn't he ever buy you anything?" 

"Of course. Considering that I had no job and no money, he bought everything for me." 

"Wasn't it hard to be so dependent on him?" 

"No. That's how things were back then. Not that it matters anymore. Everything's mine now. I earned it," Gran says. Her expression doesn't change. It remains blank and unreadable, smooth without emotion, like her voice. I wonder how often she thinks about it, about how my grandfather treated her, how often she remembers what her life once was. She pushes it aside so effortlessly, like it wasn't real, like it never happened. How can she walk through this house and it not be the only thing she thinks about? 

The doorbell rings. 

"I'll answer it," Gran offers and takes off out of the kitchen, that spring in her step, the one that comes and goes like everything else about her. Gran returns a few seconds later with Dawn, who is carrying a pitcher of watery brown iced tea. 

"It's passion tea mixed with lemonade," Dawn explains, noticing me staring at the pitcher. "It's good. Really," she assures me. 

Dawn joins me at the counter, looking through the groceries while Gran puts Dawn's tea into the refrigerator. I suppose I'll have to drink it. To be nice. But if it's disgusting, I won't pretend otherwise for her benefit. Just as Dawn's inspecting the package of pre-cooked chicken, I glance out the kitchen window to see Mari screeching to a halt on her bicycle as she turns up Gran's front walk. She's dressed for tennis in a lime green tennis dress with her racket slung on her back. 

"You didn't tell me you were riding your bike over," I tell Mari when Gran leads her into the kitchen. "I would have picked you up." 

"I like riding my bike," Mari answers, crossing the kitchen to where Dawn stands with the groceries. "Pre-cooked chicken, Grace?" Mari says in disgust and sighs. She picks up an avocado and squeezes it. She nods in approval. "Mrs. McCracken, can I have a large mixing bowl and a cutting board?" 

"I don't have a car either," Dawn tells Mari. "Neither does Mary Anne since she doesn't drive. It's a drag because I can't go anywhere. I don't even have a bike here. I know Mary Anne has one, but I think she's hiding it at Stacey's." 

"I have a car three days a week," Mari says as she washes her hands in the kitchen sink. "But my mom drove her carpool today. In the summer, I ride my bike anyway." 

"Where does your mother work?" Dawn asks. 

"In Stamford, like everyone else's parents." 

"Where in Stamford?" 

"At a doctor's office." 

"She's a nurse?" 

"No. Mrs. McCracken, where are your knives?" 

Mari turns away from the sink and away from Dawn, settling her attention on Gran, moving to her side of the kitchen. Dawn frowns at Mari's back, obviously disappointed. She thought she was getting somewhere with Mari. Dawn doesn't know that with Mari, it's one step forward and two steps back and ages before you get anywhere of significance at all. 

Gran sets out everything Mari requests and then with a somewhat wary glance around her kitchen, leaves, saying she'll be in the library if we need her. Mari springs into action the moment the door shuts behind Gran, moving all the groceries to different parts of the counter and assigning tasks to Dawn and I. I dislike cooking and Mari is aware of this, so my jobs are simple ones, such as rinsing vegetables and slicing the limes in half. Mari does the bulk of the work, flying back and forth between the counters, checking on Dawn's and my progress and then setting to her own more important tasks. The kitchen is a disaster in no time. 

"Gran will murder you if she comes back in here," I inform Mari. 

"I don't think so." 

"She might," I reply, jumping back onto the counter to sit beside where Mari's dicing tomatoes. "She'll never let you up in her attic if you make her mad." 

"Honestly, Grace," Mari says without looking up from the cutting board. "I'm not sure Mrs. McCracken can muster the emotion to get mad." 

"What is that supposed to mean?" I demand. 

"It means she's strange," Dawn answers, dropping a handful of diced avocados into the mixing bowl. "Like I've been telling you for the last two weeks." 

Mari purses her lips and gives Dawn a withering stare. "No, what I mean is that, I don't think Mrs. McCracken is capable of anger. She's always so...blase. It isn't a bad thing. It's just that, I seriously doubt she's going to come in here and yell at us for messing up her kitchen. That isn't a worry at the top of my list." 

"Mine either," Dawn agrees. "Aren't redheads supposed to have fiery tempers? I mean, I know _you_ do, Grace. I've seen you on the tennis court." 

Mari laughs. "Have you seen her throw her racket yet? She threw it at the opposing team's coach once." 

Dawn joins in her laughter. "Really? I'm not surprised. Anyway, you have a temper and I bet your mother does, too. I mean, she looks a bit hotheaded. I can tell these things." 

"I don't think you know what you're talking about," I reply. 

Dawn shrugs. 

"What I want to know is," begins Mari, scraping the tomatoes into the bowl along with the rest of Dawn's avocados, "how we're getting into the attic. If Mrs. McCracken's hiding something in there, she isn't likely to let us waltz on up there and start poking around." 

"Don't worry about it," Dawn assures her. "I'll think of something. I'm good at dealing with suspicious characters. I've done a fair amount of sleuthing in my day." 

I roll my eyes. 

Dawn finishes the salad while Mari begins throwing together her berry cobbler. And she really does throw it, tossing in the ingredients without careful measurements, and then shoves the cobbler into Gran's oven. When that's done, we carry plates and silverware out to the patio table along with the salad and the pitcher of tea. At some point during our meal preparation, Gran left the library and now is in her garden, standing with her back to us, holding the garden hose, spraying the water over her flowers. She comes over when we've sat down and begun serving ourselves. 

"So, this is the grilled chicken taco salad," she remarks, stopping next to my chair. 

"Sit down, Mrs. McCracken, and eat with us," Mari suggests and then exchanges a look with Dawn. 

"Yes," Dawn chimes in. "Have a seat." 

Gran hesitates, staring down at my plate and by the expression that briefly flickers on her face, I know she's disappointed to see that her suspicion was confirmed and there _are_ oranges in our salad. "I ate a late breakfast, girls," Gran says and I figure it's a lie. 

"Sit down anyway," Dawn prods her and begins pouring tea into the empty fourth glass. "Granny and I made this tea together. It's passion tea mixed with lemonade. My friends and I drink it all the time back in California." 

If I didn't know better, I would suspect Dawn's trying to drug my grandmother. 

"You want me to sit with you?" Gran asks, blankly, so we don't know if she's surprised or not. "Yes," she says and pulls out the empty chair. "All right." She sits down and crosses her legs and then reaches for the tea Dawn poured for her. She raises it slowly to her lips and sips lightly. Instantly, her face twists into a pucker. She doesn't say anything. 

Dawn and Mari exchange another glance. 

"Mrs. McCracken?" Dawn starts. 

"Yes, Dawn?" 

"What's in your attic?" 

I nearly choke on my tea. 

_Those_ are the fabulous sleuthing skills Dawn bragged about? 

Gran continues her blank stare. "What's in my attic?" she repeats. "There's nothing in my attic." 

"Really?" Dawn asks in a nonchalant tone. "Granny and Pop-Pop keep all kinds of great things in their attic. I think most people of your generation do. Like old clothes and jewelry and albums and magazines. Cool stuff like that." 

"I doubt I have anything 'cool' in my attic," Gran replies. 

Dawn cocks an eyebrow. "Really? I bet you do. Maybe you've forgotten. Can we go up and have a look after lunch?" 

"No." 

Dawn's taken aback by Gran's blunt response. Gran didn't even think about it. Dawn's request was never under consideration. 

Mari sets down her fork and leans forward. "Please, Mrs. McCracken?" 

"No. I don't need you girls up there, pawing through my belongings." 

And suddenly, my interest is piqued. 

Very much so. 

_Is_ there something in the attic? I watch Gran as I push my salad around on the plate. She's closed off and secretive, always, with her thoughts and emotions and apparently, with her belongings as well. More secrets. More secrets hidden in Gran's house. They've been here all along, invisible to me. I watch Gran, studying her, her lovely and familiar face with its rosy cheeks and the carrot-colored hair falling over her shoulders. She is the same Gran as always, the same Gran I studied with the same critical eye yesterday. The same, the same, and increasingly different with every day I learn something new about her. Her and her past and my mother's past. 

"You look tired, Mrs. McCracken," Mari observes. "Maybe you should lie down." 

"I'm not tired," Gran replies. 

Mari looks disappointed. But only for a moment. She turns to me and says, "Grace, after lunch, before we have dessert, let's play a set." 

I smile and nod, catching on quickly. "Yes," I agree. "Let's do." 

Dawn isn't very swift. "Tennis? No thanks. I'll sit out." 

"No. We'll play doubles," I tell her. "Mari and I haven't played doubles in ages." 

Dawn frowns. "Who am I supposed to double with?" 

Mari rolls her eyes. "Mrs. McCracken, of course!" 

Dawn catches up to us. She smiles. "Of course." 

Gran doesn't appear very enthused. "Dawn and I against you and Mari?" she asks me. "How is that a fair match up? Dawn is a terrible tennis player." 

Mari chuckles as Dawn scowls. 

"Well, you are, dear." 

Dawn turns to me. "I see where you get your annoying honesty," she says. 

Inside the house, Penelope begins barking loudly, her high-pitched and obnoxious little yip. Gran whips her head around and exclaims, "That dog!" in a most exasperated tone. "I don't know why Corinne thought I needed a dog!" 

"I think someone's at the front door," I inform her and sip my tea. I don't know what Gran was making a face about. The tea is great. 

Gran looks perplexed, sitting with her knees pressed together, hands resting on them. "I don't know who it could be. You're already here. Oh, I hope it's not that Gates girl coming to complain about Penelope again. How am I supposed to control a dog?" Gran snaps her fingers. "No. It's probably Rita," and she stands and leaves the patio, slipping inside the house through the sliding glass door. 

"Brilliant plan, Mari," I tell her, appreciatively. 

"I know," Mari agrees. "We'll wear her out on the tennis court and she'll have to take a nap. She's not exactly young. We send her running around that court for a good forty-five minutes and we're set." Mari turns her nose up at Dawn. "How is that for a plan, Miss Expert Sleuth?" 

"It's a good plan," Dawn says, not sounding at all irritated by Mari's tone or words. 

The sliding glass door opens and much to our surprise, Emily steps through with Julie coming after her. Gran's behind them, appearing slightly put out. 

"Why are all these teenage girls descending upon my house?" Gran asks me, her voice edged sharp with agitation. "I didn't realize you intended to have a party here, Grace. Don't you girls have homes of your own?" 

"Yes," Emily replies, turning back to Gran, "but there's nothing going on there. Everyone's here at your house." She redirects her attention to us. "All right, what's going on? What are you eating?" 

"Grilled chicken taco salad," Mari answers. "It's very good, even if Grace has picked out all her oranges. Would you like some? There's plenty left." 

Emily shakes her head. "No thank you. Julie and I already ate. My mother left lunch for us. We've just come from the pharmacy, actually. There's nothing going on there, so we thought we'd join in the excitement going on here." 

"There isn't any excitement here," Dawn insists. 

"No kidding," says Julie and comes to stand beside me. "Why are there oranges in your salad? That's gross, Mari." 

As Mari starts arguing with Julie, I turn my gaze on Gran, who's hovering near the sliding glass door. She doesn't appear agitated or upset, not like she sounded a moment ago. Her face is relaxed, a small smile turning up the corners of her mouth, but it's the kind of smile that may not be genuine. I never know. And there's nothing in her eyes. They are blank, watching us. 

"Gran?" I call to her. "Can you check on Mari's cobbler? It might be done." 

"Yes, all right," she agrees and disappears inside the house. 

"Okay, why are you two here?" I ask Emily and Julie when Gran's out of sight. 

"That's a nice welcome!" Emily cries. "And why do you think we're here? We want to see what's in the attic. You haven't gone up yet, right?" 

"No," Dawn answers. "We asked and she won't let us up there. So, we've come up with a plan." 

I push my chair back and stand up. "I think it's time for a new plan," I announce, placing my hands on my hips. I tilt my head, trying to see into the house to see if Gran's coming back already. There's nothing but my own reflection in the glass. "Emily and Julie will make this go much faster. They'll distract her while we go up to the attic." 

"And how are we supposed to distract her?" Julie asks me. "We did not prepare a song and dance." 

"That's okay. Just have her take you into the library. You're both into books and all the boringness. Talk to her about reading. You could keep her in there for hours probably." 

Emily scowls. "But I want to see what's in the attic!" she protests. 

"Yeah, really," agrees Julie. 

I brush away their objections with a sweep of my hand. "This is an important job," I tell them in a kind and convincing tone. "If you don't keep her distracted, we may never know what's up there. Really, you two have the most important job." 

"You know, we aren't stupid," Julie says, matching Emily's scowl. "You're trying to manipulate us." 

"Yes, I am. Now here comes Gran, so get ready to do your job." 

Gran comes back through the sliding glass door, pushing Penelope away with her foot, pushing her inside the house again. "I took your pie out of the oven," she says as she walks back onto the patio. "I set it on the cooling rack." 

"It's not a pie. It's a cobbler," Mari corrects, as if the detail matters. 

"Oh?" Gran replies. 

I step in before Mari gets us off track. "Gran?" I say, sidling up to her, very close, so we are touching. "Emily and Julie were asking if they can see your library. They'll be in advanced British Literature in the fall _and_ they're taking a critical analysis class as an elective. Will you show them your library?" 

"Yes, of course," Gran agrees and smiles at Emily and Julie. "All right," she says and turns back to the house, leading them away without another word. 

Emily and Julie cast tight-lipped glances back at us before trailing after Gran and as they disappear inside the house, Julie's husky voice drifts back to us, asking, "Do you enjoy Faulkner, Mrs. McCracken?" 

I begin stacking the salad plates, giving Gran time to lose herself in the library. She'll become so lost in prattling on and on about books to Emily and Julie that she'll never wonder where Dawn, Mari, and I have gone or what we are doing. She'll become so lost that she'll never hear us walk upstairs or the floorboards creaking in the attic. Dawn and Mari begin cleaning up as well and we carry our dishes back into the kitchen. I twisted Mari's arm into cleaning the kitchen before lunch, so not to upset Gran. We rinse off the plates and slide them into the dishwasher and then I decide it's time. 

Dawn, Mari, and I cross silently through the living room and hurry past the library. Through the open door, Gran and Emily and Julie are visible, standing in a huddle in a corner with their backs to us. Gran is speaking, voice droning on through the room, but falling short of the doorway, so I do not hear her words. I lead Dawn and Mari upstairs, moving quickly up them, and try to think of them as simply stairs and nothing more. 

"Where's the attic entrance?" Dawn whispers, following close behind me. 

"The end of the hall," I reply, quietly, as if there's any chance Gran may hear. 

"This is really exciting!" Mari hisses and actually lets loose a small giggle. 

I turn my head back to her and smile, briefly, before striding the remaining length of the hall to a closed door on the left side between a closet and Aunt Corinne's old bedroom. I reach out and tighten my fingers around the doorknob, cold and hard in my hand. Slowly, I turn my wrist to the right, twisting the knob and it clicks and the door pulls open. A narrow staircase stretches before us, stretches upward and vanishes in the darkness of the stairwell. 

"Is there a light?" Dawn asks, leaning forward into the stairwell. 

"I don't know," I reply. I've never been in Gran's attic. I've never even opened the door to the stairwell before today. "There must be." I reach out my arms, groping blindly in the dark. My right arm bumps against a chain, knocks it sideways, sends it swinging back and forth in the stretching darkness. I grab ahold and yank the chain and dim light spills out from overhead, illuminating the low and narrow stairs, barely and sparsely. 

Dawn takes a shudder of a breath. "Up we go," she whispers and moves forward onto the bottom stair. It moans beneath her weight. 

"Let me go first," I tell her with a hint of irritation. "It's my grandmother's attic and I'll be the one in trouble if she catches us." 

Dawn steps back. "By all means," she replies. 

"Thank you," I say with a curt nod in her direction and then I'm on the stairs, climbing up above their creaks and moans with Dawn and Mari close behind, pressing near me so I feel their hot breaths on my bare neck. 

We crowd at the top of the staircase where there is a slight landing that meets another door. The door is closed like everything else in this house. I don't hesitate this time. I reach out and grab the doorknob and turn it. I turn it sharply and push. 

There is nothing. 

It is locked. 

"Locked!" Mari groans. 

I push again. 

And again. 

It's _locked_? 

I can hardly make out Dawn's face in the shallow light, but I know her eyebrow is cocked at me. "Why would your grandmother lock the attic?" she asks me. 

"I don't know." 

"Maybe she's worried about people stealing her stuff," Mari suggests. 

I shake my head. "Brigitta and I are the only ones who are ever here. She trusts Brigitta. Brigitta wouldn't steal from Gran. She trusts me, too." Suddenly, I am doubtful. Maybe Gran does not trust me. Another push on the attic door tells me that maybe I am correct. Gran does not want anyone in the attic and anyone is me. 

"What now, super sleuth?" Mari asks Dawn with a touch of sarcasm. 

Dawn thinks a moment. "I know," she says and removes her wallet from her back pocket. She flips it open and takes out a fluorescent orange card. "The Palo City Public Library," she says, breezily, and slides the card into the crack in the doorway, moving it down toward the lock. She inches it, slowly, working it in. 

The card snaps in half. 

"Darn!" she groans, picking up the pieces. "Two dollars to replace this, too!" 

"This is lame," Mari grouses. "There's nothing in the attic anyway, except dioramas Mrs. Blume made in grammar school." She spins around and starts down the steps. 

Dawn and I watch her move down the stairs and through the lighted doorway. Dawn's eyebrow cocks again. Dawn and I know better. There is something on the other side of this door, something Gran keeps a secret under lock and key. Something worth knowing. 

"We'll get in the attic," I assure her and start down the steps. "Soon." 

Dawn follows after me and tugs the chain, cutting off the weak light and closes the door behind her. Downstairs, we pass Gran in the library bent over a large book on the desk, flipping through its pages, pointing out something to Emily and Julie. She never realized we went upstairs. She's clueless that we were anywhere but where we were supposed to be. A small part of me clouds with guilt. My curiosity envelopes it and wins. 

Mari's in the kitchen spooning her berry cobbler onto dessert plates. I'm not sure where she found those. Maybe Gran set them out. It's a possibility. Or maybe Mari searched all the cabinets until discovering them. If that's the case, I wonder if Gran will mind. I never know. She is unpredictable at times, swaying with her moods. 

Julie and Emily appear in the kitchen ten minutes later, each with an armload of books and Gran sweeps in after them. "Don't use them as coasters, or leave them in the sun, or where a pet might chew them," she says to Julie and Emily. "And don't forget that they're mine." 

Julie and Emily eye Gran rather warily. Both look a bit put out. "We won't," Julie replies in a tone that matches her face. "And your name is written inside all the covers. We don't know any other Allison Macintosh McCrackens." 

"That's good then," Gran says, absently. She snaps her fingers. "I have to let Penelope out," she says and leaves the kitchen again. 

"Your grandmother's bizarre," Julie announces. 

"She is," Emily agrees, shifting her books to her other arm. "And you've met all my grandparents, so you know what I'm measuring her against. She isn't _quite_ as bizarre as them, but she isn't anywhere near normal either. She's forcing us to take these books. You were right. She would have kept us in there all day. Julie faked a coughing fit so we could come in here for water." 

I frown at Emily. I have met all her grandparents and Gran is nowhere near as nutty as any of them. 

"Your grandmother told me I have a weird voice," Julie complains. 

"And she told me I'm bossy!" Emily cries. 

I lean back against the counter and laugh. 

"It isn't funny," Julie informs me. "She said it like it was a normal part of conversation. Just slipped it in and went about her business." 

Mari glances over her shoulder. "Don't be offended. Mrs. McCracken once told me that I look like a water sprite." 

Dawn knits her brow and shakes her head, slightly. "I have no comment," she says. 

"How generous of you," I sniff. 

Dawn shrugs. 

"I'm not bossy," Emily tells us, insistently. "I'm outspoken. There's nothing wrong with that. My mother says so. Now what was in the attic?" 

I suppress the immediate urge to roll my eyes and instead answer, "We don't know. The door was locked." 

"Locked!" Emily and Julie exclaim together. 

I lift my shoulders, pretending it does not bother me or raise my interest. 

Julie glances over at Emily and nods. "Corpse," she says, knowingly. 

I roll my eyes. "There are no dead bodies in the attic!" 

"There's some kind of skeleton in there," Dawn replies. 

"Pfft. There's nothing up there," Mari says and hands Julie a dessert plate. "Are we still playing tennis? I brought my racket." 

"I'm not playing tennis," Julie answers, shoveling a forkful of cobbler into her mouth. "But this is mighty tasty." 

"I'm not playing tennis either," Emily says, taking a much daintier bite of her own cobbler. "Besides, I need to go home. I'm not actually supposed to be here. I'm _supposed_ to be at home working on one of my essays for Critical Analysis. Dad will probably be calling in a while to see how it's going and he'll want to read my progress tonight." 

I raise an eyebrow at her. "He'll call you? On the telephone?" 

"Yes!" Emily snaps. 

I ignore her testiness. "Well, what are you doing tonight? Will your dad still be cracking the homework whip? We can go out to the movies or something." 

Emily lifts her shoulders. "Maybe. We'll see." 

Julie points her fork at Emily. "After dinner, of course," she says and then looks over at me. "Mrs. Bernstein's making chicken and rice tonight and I'm not missing that. It's my favorite. I put in a special request for it." 

"Don't you ever eat at your own house?" I ask Julie. 

"Sure. When Mrs. Bernstein cooks fish or nasty German food." 

After Julie finishes Emily's cobbler, they gather their borrowed books and we walk them to the front door. Gran's disappeared. I've no idea where she'd gotten off to. We wave to Emily and Julie as they climb into Emily's Toyota and then shut the front door when Emily pulls away from the curb. Dawn, Mari, and I regard each other then, not sure what to do next. We've done what we came to do - or at least made the attempt - and now there seems to be nothing left for the three of us. 

"I still want to play tennis," Mari says after several seconds of cool silence. Sometimes Mari has a one-track mind. "Let's find Mrs. McCracken." 

It's never difficult finding Gran. If she's not in the library, then she's in the garden. There's hardly ever anywhere in between. We discover her outside, dragging the garden hose around again, spraying down a young chinese magnolia. It's new. I've never seen it in this corner before. What was here before? There's no telling. Not with the way Gran moves things around. 

"We're ready to play tennis," I inform Gran when we reach her in the corner. 

Gran looks up from her watering and smiles vaguely. "Yes. All right," she says and sets down the garden hose. 

Mari and I wait on the court while Gran goes upstairs to put on another pair of tennis shoes and while Dawn runs across the street to change her shoes, too. When Dawn comes back, she's also changed out of her jeans and into a pair of faded blue-gray shorts. Gran hasn't changed her clothes though. She's still in her navy-colored slacks and pale blue shirt. 

"Won't you get hot?" I ask her, bouncing the tennis ball on the court. 

"No." 

"Can we stop yakking and play?" Mari whines behind me. Sometimes Mari is wearing. 

"Go easy on me!" Dawn calls over the net. 

"You'll never improve with an attitude like that," Gran tells her. 

"Yeah, you heard Gran!" I agree and toss the tennis ball into the air. I serve it hard over the net, aiming straight for Dawn. She leaps out of its way. 

Dawn's game doesn't improve much from there. At one point, Gran appears to seriously contemplate whacking Dawn with her racket. Instead, she takes to jumping in front of Dawn and stealing the balls that Mari and I have aimed in Dawn's direction. Mari and I are brutal players and we don't cut any slack, not for amateurs like Dawn and not for seniors like Gran. For seventy-two years old, however, Gran is quite spry. It often surprises me how quick and easily she is able to move, gliding across the court, racket outstretched. 

Mari and I win the set. It's no real competition. 

Afterward, Dawn, red-faced and winded, announces she must leave. Her mother and brother are coming for dinner tonight and then they're all going out to a movie. She promised to help prepare for dinner. Mari leaves soon after Dawn, pedaling fast away on her bicycle with a vague mention of an art class at the community center. Gran and I are alone then and when I leave the porch and return to the house, I find Gran in the kitchen, blotting her forehead with a damp dishtowel. 

"You girls wore me out," she says with a smile and drops the dishtowel into the sink. 

"Thank you for letting my friends come over." 

"You're welcome." 

I come to stand near her at the counter, leaning into it with my side. "I had a nice time," I tell her. 

"I'm pleased." 

"We'll have to do it again. Play doubles, that is. We'll find you a better partner than Dawn," I say, although I don't know who that would be. Stacey plays tennis. Just not very well. Better than Dawn though. I wish Mom would come over here. I wish she and Gran would try. 

"Yes," Gran agrees and moves away from the counter, across the kitchen to the refrigerator. "I would like that," she says and pulls Dawn's pitcher from the top shelf. Behind it, Gran finds her own iced tea and takes it out, sliding Dawn's back onto the shelf. 

I watch Gran pour two glasses of iced tea. One for me, one for her. "We weren't too noisy, were we?" I ask her. 

"No." 

I take a moment before speaking again, watching Gran lift the iced tea to her lips and sip, long and slow. "Did it remind you of when Mom was a teenager? Her and Aunt Margolo and Aunt Corinne? When they had all their friends over?" 

Gran lowers the glass. "No," she answers and for a glimmering second, I think that is it. Just another single word passing for an answer. "They were never here," she continues. "Margolo was always at Rita's with Sharon. Or off with some boy. She had so many boyfriends. Then Fay had all those clubs and committees and team practices. I've never known a girl so obsessed with going all the time. Restless, restless, restless. And Corinne was busy, too, all the time like now." 

"I don't invite my friends over very often either," I tell Gran and wonder if she knows about my parents' drinking like how I know about my grandfather. It seems wrong to speak to her about it, bring it up and point it out. It's like a betrayal of my parents. Our family secrets. 

"Hm," Gran murmurs and nods, slightly, not giving anything away. 

I drink my iced tea, thinking and shifting things in my mind. When I drain my glass and Gran has drained hers, I set mine in the sink and ask, "Gran? Will you french braid my hair?" 

"Will I french braid your hair?" Gran repeats in surprise. "Yes. All right. Let me get a brush." Without another word, Gran leaves the kitchen and I hear her cross the living room and trot up the stairs. She returns soon with a tortoiseshell hairbrush and a matching fine-toothed comb. There's a black band wrapped around her wrist. "Why do you want me to braid your hair?" she asks. 

I shrug. "I just do," I say, nonchalantly. 

We go into the living room and Gran takes a seat on the couch. I sit on the carpet in front of her, my legs stretched long and straight before me, my back touching against Gran's knees. She unsnaps the barrette from my hair and runs the hairbrush through its length, slow and easy. Again and again. It feels very nice. Gran smells like violet hand lotion. That's nice, too. 

"You used to braid my mother's hair?" I ask. 

"I suppose so. When she was a little girl." 

"Sometimes she braided mine. When she had the time." 

Gran doesn't reply. Instead she uses the comb to separate my hair into three sections. She's gentle on my hair. She doesn't pull or tug. I remember sometimes my mother was too quick and rough. 

"Fay gave you garnet earrings," Gran says after some time has passed. It's a comment or a question, I'm not sure. "I bought Fay a garnet ring for her sixteenth birthday. Or well, I asked Ian for the money and he let me have it and then I chose the ring. It was a beautiful ring. Fay never appreciated it." 

I've never heard about any ring. "What happened to it?" I ask Gran. 

"Who knows? Fay probably traded it in for something better. That would be like her." 

"That doesn't sound like her at all." 

"It does," Gran replies, flatly, twisting the hair band around the end of my braid. Gran pulls it tight. "Fay isn't anything like you," Gran says. Says it like an assurance. An assurance for me or for her. Maybe both. She rests her hands on my shoulders, bare except for thin black spaghetti straps. There's the same coolness to her touch and that scent of violets. Surprisingly, Gran bends forward and kisses the top of my head. 


	18. Chapter 18

Dawn and I meet downtown on Tuesday around noon. We didn't make plans to meet exactly, but yesterday, I mentioned I was going downtown to buy a new hairbrush at the Merry Go Round and Dawn mentioned she was going downtown to buy the new Insects single at Sound Ideas and then we agreed that we would both be downtown at the same time. But it isn't as if we're hanging out or anything. 

Dawn's chaining her bicycle to the rack outside the Merry Go Round when I pull into a parking space outside the store. Before climbing out of the car, I check my make up and hair in the visor mirror. I fidget with my barrettes a moment while Dawn waits, straddling the bike seat and tapping her toes on the sidewalk. I grab my purse and finally get out, slamming the door behind me and then straightening my jean skirt. 

"You take forever," Dawn comments as I step onto the curb and check the bottom of my right platform sandal. It's sticking to the cement. 

"I care about my appearance," I reply, grinding my sandal into the cement, trying to work off whatever has gotten stuck there. I cast an appraising look at Dawn. Black pedal pushers with a black and white checked button-up. Quite an improvement. "You look better today than usual," I tell her, generously. "But I thought you didn't have a bike?" 

"I don't. Mrs. Gates let me borrow Janet's old bike. She was in a good mood when I saw her gardening this morning, so I asked. I've borrowed it before," Dawn answers, hopping off the seat. "And thanks for the compliment," she says, sarcasm hinting at its edges. 

"You're welcome," I say, ignoring the sarcasm. "Maybe we'll find you some decent accessories while we're here." 

"As long as they're Grace-approved." 

I nod and push through the front door of the Merry Go Round. "You're learning," I reply and head straight to the back where the hairbrushes are arranged in bins. 

I select my new hairbrush carefully. It's an important purchase. I must be choosey. The bristles on my old brush began falling out two days ago and I haven't had the brush very long. I won't buy the same one again. Instead, I am selective, finally settling on a gray and purple rectangular brush with wide-spaced bristles. By the time I've chosen, Dawn has long since rolled her eyes and wandered away. I find her browsing through the earring racks, turning them slowly, every so often holding a pair of earrings to her ears. Dawn has two piercings in each ear and I've noticed her earrings rarely ever match. I've restrained myself from commenting on this yet. 

"Are you buying those?" I ask Dawn. She has a pair of dangling stars held up to her left ear. She's already wearing stars in her ears. A hot pink star and a black star in the left ear, silver double stars and a crystal star in the right. 

"Maybe," Dawn answers, studying her reflection in the mirror on top of the rack. "I'm really into stars these days." 

"No kidding." 

Dawn shrugs and moves on to the next rack, the dangling stars clutched in her hand. She begins browsing through those earrings. I look awhile, but see nothing to get excited about and wander to the barrette display instead. I'm still there when Dawn finishes with the earrings and finds me, announcing she's ready to make her purchase when I am. I pay for my new hairbrush and a new barrette. It's oval-shaped, iridescent purple. Dawn buys the dangling earrings and nothing else. After leaving the Merry Go Round, we walk over to Sound Ideas, the music store. The Insects' new single is sold out, which shocks me beyond belief. The Insects are awful. Dawn insists she doesn't like them, she just likes this one song. I don't believe her at all. 

"I'm thirsty," Dawn announces when we leave Sound Ideas. "Let's get something to drink." 

"Okay, but we're absolutely not going to the Rosebud to see your little boyfriend. I'm never going there again. We're going to Argo's." 

Dawn shrugs. "Whatever." 

At Argo's, I lead Dawn to my favorite booth, the booth my friends and I claim when we come, the booth I shared with my mother. Our waiter arrives promptly to take our order. When he returns, the order is correct. 

"See?" I say, jabbing my straw down through the ice and bright yellow liquid of the pineapple soda. "Isn't this so much better than the Rosebud?" 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Dawn replies and sips her ginger ale. "You don't have to be so smug about it." 

"Yes, I do." 

Dawn smiles slightly and takes another sip. "You're too hard on people," she says. 

"Only because they deserve it," I reply. "Logan Bruno's a jerk." 

Dawn shrugs. "Oh, I don't know about that," she says and begins peeling back a corner of the label on her ginger ale bottle. She stares at it thoughtfully for a moment and then says, "I mean, he didn't used to be a jerk. Not all the time anyway. And I mean, I don't really know him anymore, but...he used to be my friend. I guess that's why I got so upset with you and Emily and Julie. Logan and I used to spend a lot of time together when he was Mary Anne's boyfriend and we were all in the BSC together. Some of that old Baby-Sitters Club loyalty, I guess." Dawn chuckles and then falls silent. 

I fold my arms on the table and bend forward, sucking the pineapple soda up through the straw. I raise my eyes to watch Dawn as she continues peeling back the ginger ale label, slowly, absently, pulling it back and away from the emerald green glass. A moment ago, she was chuckling and now her mouth's set in a line, stiff and straight and unreadable. She doesn't look happy. 

"When are you going home?" I ask her. 

"Home-home or to Mom's house?" 

"To your mom's house. To your Stoneybrook house," I reply. She can't possibly hide at her grandparents' all summer. 

"I don't know." 

"Doesn't your mom miss you?" I ask. After all, Dawn is rarely in Stoneybrook the rest of the year. Sometimes she comes at holidays. Usually she does not. 

"Yes. She misses me," Dawn answers and tips her head back as she finishes off her ginger ale. "But that doesn't mean I can live with her. That doesn't mean I can live in that house." 

"But Mary Anne isn't there," I point out. "She's hiding at Stacey's. She's hiding like you're hiding." 

"I'm not hiding," Dawn says, crankily. "I'm...avoiding. There's a difference. It's subtle, but it's there nonetheless. I'm avoiding undesirable living conditions." Dawn pauses a moment, her mouth returning to that stiff line. "And Mary Anne isn't the problem. Ultimately, she's not the problem. It's Mom and Richard. It's both of them, equally." Dawn pauses again. "It's all of us." 

I don't know what to say because I don't understand. My parents don't fight. They love each. I doubt a lot of things about them, about how much they love me and want me, but I know they love each other. 

"Mom says she never should have married Richard," Dawn offers without my asking for it. "Mom says she never should have come back to Stoneybrook. She says everything since the divorce has been a mistake." 

Among so many other things, I don't understand how Dawn can serve this truth to me, this family secret that should remain that way. If it were mine, I would keep it for myself. I have my private thoughts that I don't speak, sending out into the open for others to hear and know and pick over. Dawn, though, spills her mind and lets it seep through. 

And I let the words seep in. 

"Is that why they fight all the time?" I ask Dawn, not looking at her because I can't. I stir my straw around in my soda. It's a distraction from the discomfort settling around our table. 

"Yes. Pretty much," Dawn answers. "They both blame the other. They married too soon. They didn't really know each other that well. They married who the other was in high school. That's what I think." 

I nod, still stirring. I've heard the story about Dawn's mother and Mary Anne's father and their star-crossed love affair at least a thousand times. Mary Anne used to enjoy telling it, telling it with this dreamy, distant look in her eyes. She hasn't told the story in a long time. Honestly, I've been grateful for that. 

"I think, maybe, my grandparents were right to break them up all those years ago," Dawn continues. "Mom and Richard aren't good for each other. They don't belong together." 

"That's what it sounds like to me," I agree, honestly. "Your grandparents couldn't have had complete control over your mother. Obviously, she didn't want to be with him bad enough to defy them beyond high school. And vice versa. They broke up for a reason. High school romances aren't meant to be great, life long love affairs." 

Dawn nods. "Yes. I agree. I don't know exactly why they let Granny and Pop-Pop come between them. No one likes to talk about it. I guess they're embarrassed," Dawn says. She spins her empty bottle on the table top, spins it and stares as it turns on its side, emerald green streaking in a circle. She stops it spinning with one finger. "Let's get out of here," she tells me. "I'm tired of this." 

"Okay," I say and slide out of the booth. I open my purse and toss a couple dollars onto the table. Dawn unzips her olive green woven purse and does the same. Then we leave Argo's, Dawn following behind me through the front door as we step into the warm afternoon sun. 

"What now?" Dawn asks me. 

"I don't know," I reply, slipping my hands into the back pockets of my jean skirt. I raise onto the toes of my platforms, rock back down. "Do you want to go swimming at my house?" I suggest. 

"Sure! But my swimsuit's at Granny and Pop-Pop's. I can't wear one of yours, remember, because I'll stretch it out." 

I scowl at her. "I don't think that's what I said," I remark. Why must she always throw my words back in my face? "I only pointed out that my swimsuits would be too small for you." I glance down the street, squinting far down Essex. Emily's Toyota is parked outside the pharmacy. Of course. "Emily and Julie are just down the street," I tell Dawn. "Come on. We'll get them and you can borrow one of Julie's swimsuits. Then we won't have to go all the way across town." 

Dawn shrugs. "Fine with me," she says and starts to take a step, but stops. "Are Emily and Julie ever _not_ at that pharmacy?" she asks. 

"They're there all the time," I answer and begin across the street. 

It's a quick walk to the pharmacy, but I slow as Dawn and I near. I remove my sunglasses to better see inside the pharmacy. Sometimes, Emily and Julie aren't there at all. Emily simply leaves her car parked outside while they disappear elsewhere downtown. I detest those tricky times because I inevitably end up stuck in the pharmacy, trapped in obnoxious conversation with the Bernsteins. I can't see Emily or Julie through the windows. My view is obstructed by an allergy medicine display and all I see is part of Mr. Bernstein's head. The front door pushes open then and a twentysomething man and woman come out of the pharmacy and through the open door, I hear the loud, shaking sound of Mrs. Stern's laugh. 

I decide it's safe to enter the pharmacy. 

Mrs. Stern's still laughing when Dawn and I come in. Her head's tossed back as she claps her hands together, leaning back against the counter. Mrs. Stern has an enormous, distinctive laugh that rattles from deep down and bursts forth, alive and all-consuming. It snatches space and spreads. Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein stand on the other side of the counter - Mr. Bernstein smiling and staring downward, Mrs. Bernstein straight-faced. Anything funny could not possibly have come from either of them. 

"Hello, Miss Blume," Mrs. Bernstein greets me. "Hello, Mary Anne's stepsister, Dawn." 

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Hello," I reply. 

"Hi, girls!" chirps Mrs. Stern. 

Mr. Bernstein looks up briefly to offer his woodchuck smile. Then he goes back to staring down at his hands resting on the counter edge. 

"Are Emily and Julie here?" I ask, getting straight to the point. 

"Of course," Mrs. Stern answers with a laugh. "It's Tuesday afternoon." 

I don't even want to know the significance of Tuesday afternoon. No doubt, Emily and Julie are hanging around here waiting for some degenerate to come in and buy something creepy. 

"They're in the office," Mrs. Bernstein tells me and then turns around and shouts, "Emily! Grace is here!" 

Emily and Julie appear a few seconds later. Immediately, I notice they're both wearing their hair in french braids. French braids are in now, apparently. 

"Hello," Emily and Julie chorus together. 

"Hello," I echo back. 

"Mom," Julie says to Mrs. Stern. "Weren't you leaving half an hour ago?" 

"Yes, I was," Mrs. Stern replies and glances at her watch. "Son of a bitch," she curses under her breath. "My lunch break has lasted for two hours!" 

"Thank you for cursing in front of the children, Jeanie," Mrs. Bernstein remarks. 

"Anytime," Mrs. Stern replies. "In fact, I'll do it again because son of a bitch, I think I'm missing a meeting. Dammit." Mrs. Stern whirls around and begins toward the front door, still staring at her watch as if, perhaps, it is lying to her about the time. "Try to come home at a decent hour, Juliebean!" she calls out before pushing through the front door. 

As soon as Mrs. Stern's gone, Emily turns her focus on us. "All right, what's going on?" she demands. "Are you two doing something interesting without us?" 

"Certainly," I reply. "All sorts of exciting things." 

"That's so unfair," Julie mutters. 

"It is," Emily agrees and then leans across her mother to slap her father on the arm. "Dad!" she yells. "You haven't met Dawn yet! This is Mary Anne's stepsister, Dawn. She's from California!" 

Dawn's mouth turns down. I can tell she's tired of being introduced as "Mary Anne's stepsister". 

Mr. Bernstein looks up. He stares at Dawn for a moment, his mouth partially open, prepared to speak. He doesn't say anything, not for a long time. Finally, he says, as quietly as possible, "Hello," and nothing more. 

And I can read the signs. Mr. Bernstein is not having a good day. 

"It's nice to meet you," Dawn replies with a small smile. Her eyes shift to me, but I pretend not to notice. I've given her the tutorial. She knows what to expect. 

"We're going swimming at my house," I inform Emily and Julie. We've wasted enough time already. "Do you want to come?" 

"Of course," Emily and Julie answer together. 

I _hate_ when they do that. 

"We'll just have to go home - " Emily begins. 

"And get our swimsuits," Julie continues. 

"Then we'll come to your house," finishes Emily. 

I hate that even more. 

I ignore it though. "Dawn will need one of your swimsuits, Julie." 

"I'm too fat for Grace's," Dawn adds. 

"You're not fat," Mrs. Bernstein objects. "You _are_ on a diet, aren't you? You really are much too young for such nonsense. Does your mother - " 

I cut her off. "She's joking, Mrs. Bernstein." 

Mrs. Bernstein shuts her mouth. But not for good. She turns to Emily. "You cannot go swimming," she informs her. 

"Why not?" Emily demands. 

"Because Uncle Malcolm and that girlfriend of his are coming for dinner and then we're all going out to the movies. Uncle Malcolm will be away for almost a week and he wants to see you before he leaves. You promised him." 

"Mom!" Emily exclaims. "It's not even three o' clock! They're coming at six! I'll be home long before then!" 

Mrs. Bernstein purses her lips. She's ready to relent. 

Shockingly, Mr. Bernstein speaks up. "Emily," he says in his meek and quiet voice. "You s-s-said you would w-w-w-work on your G-g-g-georgetown application t-today." 

After all this time, I'm still surprised to hear Mr. Bernstein stutter. It creeps up, sometimes, when I least expect it and even now, when I expected it to be a bad day, it is surprising. Surprising in a moment and awkward and uncomfortable for all the moments that follow. I'm never sure what to do. So, I stand where I am and listen, watching him struggle and stutter. Mrs. Bernstein and Julie watch him, too, giving him their attention. Emily looks away. 

"Emily?" says Mrs. Bernstein. 

"I have the entire summer to work on it," Emily argues. "It's not like I've not been doing anything. I told you, Dad, I finished my analysis paper on the play this morning and I already started the next book. I'm working on my summer reading. I'll get to everything else. Do you want to chain me to my desk?" 

"N-n-no," Mr. Bernstein answers, "but you p-p-promised and you s-should do what you s-s-s-say you w-will. You need to t-t-take this s-s-seriously, Emily and you..." Mr. Bernstein pauses. He gets that confused look he often wears. His jaw tightens and he opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Mrs. Bernstein sets her left hand over his right hand, which grips the edge of the counter still, tight like the muscles in his face. "I'm g-going into the b-b-back," he finally whispers and removes his hand from underneath Mrs. Bernstein's. 

"All right, Bernie," Mrs. Bernstein says. "Come back when you feel like it." 

Mr. Bernstein vanishes between the rows of shelves. The office door bangs shut behind him. 

"Mom?" Emily says. 

"You may go swimming," Mrs. Bernstein replies and removes a large green binder from beneath the counter. She flips it open and begins turning the pages, her lips pursed again. "Go now before I change my mind." 

"Thanks, Mom!" Emily cries and runs out from behind the counter with Julie following after her. "You can deal with Dad. You know how to deal with him." 

"I will deal with him." 

"I'll be home by six!" Emily promises and grabs my arm, pulling me out of the pharmacy. Outside, Emily stops at her car, still holding my wrist in her small, warm hand. She focuses on Dawn and her expression changes. She looks less self-assured than when she raced out from behind the pharmacy counter, pulling us all along with her. She is hesitant, unsure. "My father," she begins, "is so shy. He doesn't _mean_ to be unfriendly, he is just...so shy. And...he can't help the way he talks. He really can't. He isn't like that all the time. He's having a bad day. That's all." 

"Oh...that's okay," Dawn replies, slowly, like she isn't sure how to respond. 

Emily purses her lips together the way her mother does and then says, "He may have a few bad days, actually. So...just so you know." Emily turns away from Dawn then, unzipping her purse and digging inside for her car keys. 

"Oh...okay," Dawn says. "It wasn't a big deal." 

Emily doesn't look up. 

I wonder, always, how Emily feels, deep down, about her father's stuttering and all that comes with it, wrapped up tight, a full strange and awkward package. She never says much, except for vague excuses. Underneath all her bossiness, Emily is wound and bottled, snug and solid and capped. There is much more to Emily than we ever see. 

"I would like to know one thing though," Dawn says, causing Emily to finally look up and me to raise an eyebrow. What could Dawn possibly have the nerve to ask? "Is your father's name Bernie Bernstein?" 

Julie laughs. 

"Oh, well..." Emily says, twirling her key ring around her right pointer finger. "His name is actually Bernard." Emily sighs. "I know, it's _so_ stupid. I can't imagine what my grandparents were thinking. They see nothing wrong with it. And they've never forgiven my mother for nicknaming him 'Bernie' when she and Dad started dating. As if that's any worse!" 

"Well, it's the most ridiculous name I've ever heard," I say, bluntly. It has to be said. Emily's grandparents are nuts. She is aware. 

"I know," Emily agrees. 

Emily and Julie wait at Emily's car while Dawn and I retrieve her bicycle from out in front of the Merry Go Round. Then we load it in the trunk of Emily's car. It won't fit in mine. Emily and Julie drive off to get their swimsuits, agreeing to meet Dawn and I at my house in fifteen minutes or so. Dawn and I walk back to my car and climb in, then head away from downtown Stoneybrook toward Locust. 

"I feel bad for Emily," Dawn comments as we drive. 

"Why is that?" 

"Because of her father. I feel bad for him, too. And I know she's weird, but I also feel bad for Mrs. Bernstein. It must be hard living with that. With the stuttering, I mean. And how he acts anyway. It must be hard on them all." 

"I guess." 

"Doesn't Emily ever talk about it?" 

I shake my head. 

"Hm," is all Dawn says. 

I feel guilty bringing Dawn into my house. Little pangs of guilt stab at my sides as I unlock the door from the garage. Dawn isn't welcome in my home. Dawn isn't someone I am supposed to be with. But I turn the knob and push open the door and let her in anyway. My mother would be upset with me for defying her. And still I lead Dawn through my kitchen and living room and up the stairs and all the time hope that my parents don't surprise me by coming home early. 

I change into my swimsuit while Dawn sits on the floor beside my bookcase, flipping through this year's yearbook. "I hardly remember any of these people," she remarks, turning the pages. 

"They probably don't remember you either." 

"Thanks," Dawn says, sarcastically. "You know, Mary Anne and I found out about Mom and Richard's history together from a yearbook. We used to love looking at it. We were so dreamy about their star-crossed lovers status in those days. Too bad the reality didn't live up to the fantasy." Dawn opens the front cover of the yearbook, where my friends and classmates have scribbled notes to me. From where I stand behind Dawn, straightening the straps of my swimsuit, I see Julie's handwriting in the inside cover, so neat and precise and not Julie-like. And Mary Anne's lovely cursive is there along with Emily's tiny, straight print. Stacey's in the back cover, I know, squeezed between Pete Black and Katie Shea. 

"Those are personal," I inform Dawn. 

Dawn snaps the cover closed. "Sorry about that," she apologizes, breezily. "Grace Anita Blume." She chuckles to herself. 

I roll my eyes. 

"Well, then, you shouldn't have printed that inside your yearbook. Your initials spell 'gab'. Very appropriate." Dawn chuckles again and slides the yearbook back into its slot in the bookcase. "We should go to my house...I mean, Mom's house...and I'll show you her old yearbook. We can look up your aunt." 

"I know what she looked like." 

"I don't." 

"There are pictures of her at Gran's house." 

"I never paid attention." 

I shrug. "That's your own fault," I say and begin for the door. I don't care to discuss Aunt Margolo. I wish Dawn would quit bringing her up. 

I jump right into the pool while Dawn stretches out on a lounge chair with a glass of lemonade, waiting for Emily and Julie to bring her a swimsuit. Emily and Julie usually take much longer than anticipated. I don't know what happens to them. I doubt either could account for most of the time they waste. When they finally appear at the gate, Julie's wearing nothing but her school swimsuit and a towel draped over her shoulders. Emily's fully clothed, of course, still modest at Dawn's newness. She stands behind Dawn while removing her shorts and polo shirt, as if Dawn won't see her in her swimsuit eventually. Dawn, for her part, has no qualms about stripping completely in my backyard. Maybe it's a California thing. 

"Don't be angry," Emily commands from where she sits at the pool edge, legs dangling in the water, rubbing sunscreen onto her arms. "We called Stacey and Mary Anne." 

Emily is relentless. 

"There wasn't much of a 'we' involved," Julie corrects. "You called while I was in the bathroom." 

"You were with me in spirit." 

"And?" Dawn asks in a voice I can't quite read. Upset? Disinterested? Hopeful? Any and all? 

Emily lifts her shoulders. "No one answered the phone. I left a message though saying we're here. This dumbness needs to end." 

Dawn sets her mouth in that stiff, straight line. "You're really pushy, you know that?" she says to Emily. 

"I am not!" Emily gasps. "I'm outspoken and I get results." 

I roll my eyes and duck under the water. 

Stacey and Mary Anne never call us. They never show up either. This is how the summers are. It's different during the school year when we see each other every day, all day, sit in classes together, meet up for clubs and practices. But in the summertime, our lives spin on separately, Stacey and Mary Anne, Emily and Julie, and me somewhere in between. We swim until five and then get out and towel off before heading inside the house, still dripping from our hair and suits. Emily and Julie begin pulling food out of my refrigerator and after momentary debate, decide to make nachos. Dawn doesn't complain too loudly or too long. 

We leave our mess in the kitchen when we're finished and go back out to the patio. Dawn and Julie dive into the pool again while Emily and I lay out on the cement, too full and tired to swim. 

"What movie are you seeing tonight?" I ask Emily. I can't imagine the Bernsteins in a movie theater. They'll probably be thrown out for fighting over whether to sit on the aisle or in the center. 

"Some stupid sci-fi movie," Emily grumbles, her face turned away from me. "My father's been pestering us to see it. It's about alien robots or something. Mom and I are going grudgingly and under protest. Uncle Malcolm's dying to see the dumb movie, too. He and Dad should just go together and leave me out of it." 

"I've seen the previews for that. It looks revolting." 

"You mean it looks _awesome_," Julie pipes up from the pool. "I'm seeing it with Paul and Rachel. Otherwise, I'd go with your dad, Emily." 

"Really, Julie," I say, resting my chin on my arms, "are you sure it's Emily's uncle you're in love with? I think it's Mr. Bernstein that you're really after." 

"Well, we have been discussing running away together when I turn eighteen next summer." 

"If you ran away with my father, I'd never speak to you again!" Emily exclaims. 

"Yes, you would. How else would you call me 'Mom'?" 

Emily laughs and Dawn and I follow. 

"You two are weird," Dawn says, swimming to the edge of the pool, near where Emily and I lay. "You know what? I think I'm going to go home." 

"Because we're weird?" Julie asks, floating on her back in the deep end. 

"No. I mean, I think I'm going to move back in with Mom and Richard. I just decided. I might do it tomorrow." 

I turn my head so I look at Dawn. I'm uncertain what caused her to have this change of heart. And I am skeptical that her words are anything more than words. She's talked about moving home before. She hasn't done it yet. 

"What time is it?" Emily demands suddenly. 

"I don't know," I reply and roll onto my side to look at the clock on the patio. "Six-ten," I tell her. 

"Oh, my gosh!" Emily shrieks, leaping to her feet and scrambling toward her neatly folded clothes. "My mother's going to murder me!" 

"Dinner with your uncle!" Julie cries, the meaning of the time dawning on her, too. "Go! Go! Go!" 

"I know! I know!" Emily shouts, wrapping her damp towel around her waist and then tugging her polo shirt over her head. Backwards. "I'll see you later!" she yells and takes off running toward the gate, her purse and shorts gathered in her arms. 

"Tell them your watch stopped!" Dawn calls after her. "That's what I tell my dad and stepmom!" 

I don't think Emily hears. She's gone and a moment later, we hear her car roaring out of the driveway. 

"Is she actually in trouble?" Dawn asks Julie and I. 

Julie holds out her palms and raises them up and down. "It depends," she answers. 

"Don't worry about Emily," I inform Dawn, sitting up on the cement and crossing my legs. Trouble never sticks for Emily. She'll be fine. "You both should probably get going, too," I say, direct and to the point. "My parents will be home soon." 

"Um...our ride ran away," Julie points out. 

Ten minutes later, Mrs. Porter pulls up in the driveway. Julie, Dawn, and I are waiting on the front porch steps. I wave goodbye as they slide into the backseat and then return to my house, empty once again. It isn't a moment too soon. I'm scraping the remainders of our snack into the trash can when my parents bang through the door from the garage. 

"Hello, Grace," Dad greets me. "Been swimming?" 

"Yes." 

"Did you leave any of the water in the pool?" Mom asks. "Or is it all on the kitchen floor now?" 

"On the floor. Watch your step." 

"Thank you. I will." 

While my parents heat their delicious frozen dinners in the microwave, I go upstairs to shower. I stay in the shower a long time, washing my hair three times with coconut mango-scented shampoo, washing out the chlorine, washing it down the drain. The mirrors are fogged when I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a fluffy ivory-colored towel. I brush out my wet hair with my new hairbrush. I love the feeling of just washed hair. 

"You smell nice," Mom tells me when I return to the living room. I've changed into a yellow plaid pajama set. I am refreshed and clean. Mom, however, is still in her work clothes, although she's shed her suit jacket. Now she's only in the dark gray sleeveless dress with her gray-checked stilettos propped up on the coffee table. There's an open file in her lap. And a drink resting on the coffee table near her feet. It's in a tall clear glass. It looks like regular cola. I know better. 

I sit down beside Mom and reach for the glass. "May I have some of your soda?" I ask her. 

Mom leans forward and places her hand over the glass. "No," she answers. "There are others in the fridge." 

I move my hand away and sit back on the couch, leaning back into the cushions. "Where's Dad?" I ask. 

"He went upstairs to take a shower. We had a long day. But I still have so much to do." 

She always has so much to do. I stare down at my hands resting on my bare knees. I decide to say it. 

"You always have so much to do." 

Mom glances over at me. She stares at me a moment. "Yes," she finally agrees. "My job is very important. You know that." 

"Yes. I know," I say because it is the truth. Her job is important. And I know it's important. But other things are important too. I should be important, even if she never wanted me. 

Mom returns to the file on her lap. "What did you do today?" she asks me, absently. 

"I met up with my friends," I answer and it's not a lie. I am not lying to my mother. 

"That's great." 

I continue to study my hands. I wonder if I should get up and leave. Mom doesn't want to be bothered. I realize that. I look over at her as she thumbs through her papers and then reaches forward for her glass. She sips it and returns it to the table. 

I lay my head on her shoulder. 

Mom glances over at me, startled. "What's this?" she asks. 

"It isn't anything," I answer. "I'm tired, that's all." 

"From the leisurely life of a teenager?" 

"It isn't so easy." 

"I remember." 

"Do you?" I ask and close my eyes. There's the faint scent of her perfume clinging to her dress. I like the way my mother smells. I can't smell the alcohol on her breath yet. 

"Yes. I would never want to be one again. I'm glad that's behind me," Mom says and shuffles her papers. Her file hits the coffee table, making a slight slapping sound against the wood. Following it is the sound of ice clinking in the glass, swishing in the rum and cola. Then I feel her touch on my knee, her slender fingers touching me lightly. For an instant, they are there, lingering on my skin and then that is it. They are gone. 

I open my eyes and Mom's hands are resting in her lap. Just resting there, all alone. "I don't mind being a teenager," I remark, so the conversation does not die. 

"Looking back you would mind," Mom replies. And she sighs, tipping her head back. "Did I tell you about that charity thing Hal and I have to go to?" Mom asks and doesn't wait for an answer. "It's on Friday. Or Saturday. I don't remember. I don't want to go. I have more important things to do. But we must. There isn't much choice. Fiona would be so upset if we didn't show. I have to buy a new dress this week. What color should I choose?" 

"You always choose green," I reply. "Choose purple this time. That's my favorite color." 

"Yes, it is," Mom agrees and I wonder if she really knew. "I look best in green, but I'll look for a purple dress," she promises and pats my knee. 

"Mom?" 

"Yes?" 

"Yesterday, Gran and I were talking and - " 

Mom's hand freezes on my knee. 

"She told me about this ring she gave you for your sixteenth birthday. A garnet ring. Do you remember?" 

Mom doesn't respond right away. She moves her hand from my knee again, returning it to its resting place in her lap. Her other hand reaches for her glass on the coffee table. "Of course I remember," Mom says and takes a drink. 

"Do you still have the ring?" 

"Yes." 

"May I have it?" 

"No." 

I raise my head from her shoulder and knit my brow together. "Why not?" I demand, crossly. 

"Because you can't." 

"That isn't any kind of an answer. I don't want it to keep. I'll just wear it sometimes. Can I have it just to wear?" 

"No." 

I scoot away from Mom and regard her. She doesn't look at me. She stares straight ahead, glass raised to her lips. There's only ice left now. She's draining something that is not there. Dad's footfalls pound on the stairs and he appears at the bottom, coming into the living room already dressed for bed in flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt. He stops a distance from the couch. He looks from me to Mom. 

"What's wrong?" Dad asks us. 

I rise from the couch and stride away. "Nothing," I tell him as I leave. "Mom's being a bitch, that's all," I say, casual and breezy, trotting up the stairs. 

My parents don't say anything. 

"What did she call me?" Mom finally demands when I've reached the top of the stairs. I don't linger there to hear Dad's response. 


	19. Chapter 19

"Wake up, Grace." 

My eyelids flutter open to be greeted with a dimmed light spilling through the darkness of the room from the bedside lamp and my mother's face, ghostly pale and shadowed in the lamplight. 

"Wake up, Grace," she repeats and shakes my shoulder. Her voice isn't soft or soothing. It isn't an early-morning voice. It is her regular, every day voice and the tone and volume startle me more awake than the shaking. 

"What is it?" I ask, groggily, raising my hands to my head, as if to clear the fog settling there, wave it away through my fingers. "What time is it?" 

"It's three o' clock," Mom answers. "Why aren't you up yet?" 

The fog starts to clear and my eyes begin to adjust to the dimness of the room. I look at Mom, closer than before. She's wearing her new jogging outfit, steel gray and royal blue. 

"Aren't you going to jog with me?" 

I rub my eyes and sit up. I glance over at the alarm clock, blazing 3:03 in bright, bloody red. I didn't set the alarm. I set it the last two nights, but not this one. Not after I hurried to my room and slammed the door and stayed there, angry and stewing. I didn't intend to wake for Mom, this morning or ever again. And now here she is, standing beside my bed, ready to go, but waiting. Waiting for me. 

I swing my legs out from under the covers. "My alarm didn't go off," I reply and stumble onto my feet, tired and unsteady. 

Mom turns the alarm clock toward her. "You forgot to set it. Here, I'll do it now, so it'll go off tomorrow morning." Mom flicks the switch with her thumb. 

I undress as fast as possible for my sleepy state. I toss my pajamas onto the bed and pull on a sports bra and long-sleeved t-shirt and then step into a pair of sweat shorts. Mom inches toward the door as I slip into socks and running shoes, tying the laces in a rush in case she suddenly decides to leave me behind. She doesn't. She waits still, leaning back into the doorway, framed in the glowing light from the hall. Mom isn't good at waiting and yet this time she waits for me. 

She doesn't mention that I called her a bitch. 

But I didn't expect her to. 

I bound down the stairs after her, hitting the steps hard in my running shoes. Mom's out the door before me, already starting at a jog down the front walk. I am after her, hurrying to catch up, hurrying to catch her. The early morning air is cool and crisp as I fall into step beside my mother, running shoes hitting the cement in time with hers. The streets are deadly silent, an eerie stillness lingering around us. So quiet that all I hear is the sound of our feet against the cement and of our breath releasing from our mouths, mine falling after Mom's, not matching, not in rhythm. 

I follow Mom's lead, turning when I feel her body turn, moving in a new direction. She takes me down Elm Street past Stacey's house, where Stacey and Mary Anne sleep inside. She takes me down Rosedale Road, first past Julie's house and then past Emily's. Two of Emily's cats are in the front yard, one curled on top of the mailbox and another crouched behind the porch railing. I see their eyes flash in the night. There's a light on inside Emily's house, somewhere downstairs, barely visible from the front window. It's leaking out from another room. Mom and I run past. Mom never glances that way. 

"It's too quiet," I tell Mom in a gasp of breath as we turn down Spring Street past the spot where I once left someone lying in the road, where I once did something very bad. I run past and don't look down. It makes it much less real. 

"I like it like this," Mom answers. I don't think she realizes where she's taken me. "I like the quiet sometimes." 

"It's too much for me." 

"You shouldn't talk, Grace. We're wasting our breath." 

"I'm almost out of breath. I'm tired. Aren't you ready to stop?" 

"No, but we can head home. I'll race you," Mom says and doesn't wait for a reply. She takes off, fast on her long, slender legs, pulling ahead of me, pulling past and away. 

I chase her, pushing hard within myself, pushing to catch up. Mom is too fast, her stride is too wide. I am at her heels, just behind, but I cannot pull ahead. 

Mom laughs ahead of me as we turn onto Locust. "You can't catch me, Grace?" she calls back with that laugh in her voice. "I'm thirty-four years older than you! You should be in much better shape!" And she runs even faster, approaching our house, and sails on her legs up the walk onto the porch. 

"You shouldn't be able to run like that," I pant when I've reached the porch, too . I lean back against the wall, catching my breath, trying to, trying like I tried to catch my mother. 

"Because I'm so old?" Mom asks and laughs again. 

"Yes." 

Mom smiles at me, large and wide. Then she opens the front door and steps inside. Dad's waiting in the living room, sitting in the armchair with yesterday's newspaper spread open on his lap. He's surprised when I come in behind Mom. The surprise flashes across his face, his eyes behind his glasses and then the surprise turns into something else. It fades into a frown. Dad rises from the armchair, letting the paper float and fall to the ground. 

"You're doing this now, too?" he asks me. 

"Yes." 

"You sound so disapproving, Hal," Mom scoffs and then she laughs. 

"I don't think I approve of my daughter traipsing through the streets in the dark," Dad answers. 

"_Your_ daughter? I didn't realize she was yours alone." 

"Our daughter. You know what I mean." 

"Do I now?" 

"_Fay_." 

Harold," she replies. 

There is nothing for a moment. 

There is only silence. 

My parents stare at each other and I stare between them, shifting back and forth. Dad gives in. He tosses his arms into the air and begins toward the staircase. 

"I knew you'd see it my way," Mom says and follows him toward the stairs. She passes him up. "I have to do my tape now. Don't use up all the hot water before I get a chance to shower, Hal. I'll see you this evening, Grace. Have a wonderful day." 

"I will." 

And then my mother is gone. 

----------------------------------- 

Around noontime, I'm stretched across my bed, eating lunch and watching a soap opera when the telephone rings. Quickly, I chew my bite of ham sandwich and dive for the telephone, nearly knocking my pineapple soda off the night table. 

"Hello?" I say into the receiver. 

"What color are your panties?" breathes a husky voice. 

I roll my eyes. "Hello, Julie." 

"Ahh, you knew it was me?" 

"Yes. Julie, your voice. It's very distinctive. Did you just decide to ask that while the phone was ringing or have you had it planned?" 

"I've had it planned. I said it to my grandma on the phone earlier. I thought I'd try it with you." 

"You said that to your grandma? You're sick." 

"She thought it was hysterical," Julie answers. "So, what are you doing? Not anything, I suppose. Listen, Paul, Rachel, and I are going to Washington Mall to see _The Destry Effect_. That's the movie the Bernsteins saw last night. Emily didn't care for it, but Mr. Bernstein told me it was terrific. I'm leaning more toward believing his opinion since we like the same things anyway. Do you want to come then? We're seeing the two o' clock show." 

"Um, gee, Julie..." I start, hesitantly, wrinkling my nose. The thought of being stuck in a dark movie theater with Paul and Rachel Stern is not appealing in any way. "I don't really like science fiction." 

"I know, but I can't understand why not. You don't want to come then?" 

"I'll pass, but thanks for the invitation," I reply and lay back down on the bed beside my plate. I pop a potato chip into my mouth. "Is Emily refusing to see the movie again? The two of you can spend an afternoon apart?" 

"Emily's chained to her desk right now." 

I gasp in mock horror. "Are you telling me that Emily actually got in trouble for being late last night? And that her parents are actually imposing some kind of punishment?" 

"Well, no," Julie replies and I detect a split second of pause in her voice. "It's more of a self-imposed punishment, really. I guess last night when Emily came in late everyone was just sitting around the living room waiting for her - Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein and Uncle Malcolm and the other woman - and all Mrs. Bernstein said was, 'I'm very disappointed in you, Emily Elaine.' Then nothing else was said, but Mrs. Bernstein got her point across and now Emily's chained herself to her desk and refuses to leave it all day. Mr. Bernstein is quite pleased." 

I roll my eyes. Mr. Bernstein needs to get a life. "That's fascinating, Julie," I tell her. 

"I know. Listen, Rachel wants the phone. She's throwing dried pasta at me. I'll talk to you later!" 

And Julie hangs up. 

I finish lunch and then jump in the shower. I've just stepped out when I hear the telephone ringing again in the bedroom. Wrapped in my towel with another twisted around my head, I hurry out of the bathroom and to the night table. I pick up the phone on its fifth ring. 

"I'm not wearing any panties right now," I say in lieu of a greeting. 

"I thought your parents got you free panties," responds Dawn's voice. 

I close my eyes and let a moment pass. "I thought you were Julie," I say. 

"I sound nothing like Julie!" Dawn protests. "Julie always sounds like she has a cold. And what kind of perverted conversations do you and Julie have via the telephone? I bet the kids in youth group would be interested to hear about this!" 

"You're a riot." 

"Yes, I am," Dawn agrees. "I've decided that I'm moving back to Mom's house. I know I said I decided last night, but I decided for sure a moment ago. I've talked it over with Granny and Pop-Pop and they think it's time to give Mom and Richard another chance. Jeff wants me to come back, too. I guess it's not fair that I left him alone there for so long. Of course, he keeps bouncing back and forth between Mom's house and the Pikes. I may not be able to count on him sticking around long, but that's okay." 

"You're making the right decision," I tell her. "You've been hiding out long enough." 

"I'm not hiding. I'm avoiding," Dawn insists with a hint of agitation. "Anyway, what are you doing? Do you want to help me move my stuff back to Mom's?" 

"You just need my car, don't you?" 

"Basically, yes." 

"I'll pick you up at two." 

"I'll be here." 

I don't rush. I take my time getting ready. Dawn doesn't need the impression that I would hurry for her. I brush and dry my hair at the same pace as usual and then sweep it up into a high ponytail, curling the ends with the iron. For today, I select a pale pink eye shadow that shimmers in the light and a dark mauve lipstick. I dress in a pair of black capri pants and black heeled sandals and then carefully pull a shirt over my head, cautious of my hair and make up. I've chosen my black and white sleeveless shirt that crisscrosses in the back. I admire my reflection in the mirror. I look perfect. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle present. Perfect. 

It takes Dawn an entire lifetime to answer the door. I lean on the doorbell and let it chime over and over, the chimes running into and over each other. Finally, Dawn opens the door. She's wearing a neon-colored tie-dyed bikini. 

"Do you know what time it is?" I demand, placing my hands on my hips. 

"Well, apparently, it's two o' clock," Dawn replies, not concerned that she's kept me waiting or that she isn't even dressed. "I've been outside tanning. Sorry." Dawn holds the door open wider, so I may step inside. 

"You aren't ready," I point out, stating the obvious. I step inside the foyer and glance around. I haven't been inside the Porters' house in years. I see that Mrs. Porter really likes floral patterns and doesn't necessarily care if they match. "And you shouldn't lay out in the sun like that. You'll get wrinkles." 

Dawn shrugs. "We'll see. I'll just throw some clothes on over my suit. I'm all packed, don't worry. Come on, I'll show you my room." Dawn takes off up the stairs without waiting for me. 

I follow behind her, reluctantly. She's already dressing when I come into the room, pulling on a pair of faded jean shorts. Over the bikini top, she tugs on her lacy magenta tank top, the one I actually sort of like. 

"That's one of your less offensive clothing items," I inform her, pointing at the tank top. 

Dawn looks down, straightening the shirt. "Really? It's my friend, Maggie's. I kind of permanently borrowed it last summer. She hasn't mentioned anything about it, so I just keep wearing it. You can borrow it sometime, if you like." 

I snort. "Please, redheads don't wear hot pink." 

Dawn puckers her lips at me. "Ohhhh, I didn't mean to offend your fashion sense, Miss Blume." 

"You've never worried about offending it before," I reply, testily and then pause. "You did _not_ just call me 'Miss Blume,' did you?" 

Dawn laughs. "I totally did. What is up with that name? Why does Emily's mother call you that?" 

"Because she's weird." 

Dawn laughs again. "I've heard Julie call you that, too." 

"Julie does it because she knows how much it annoys me. Now don't you start it, too." 

"I might and I might not," Dawn says and slides into her hideous Birkenstocks. She grabs a duffel bag off her bed and slings it over one shoulder along with her woven purse. "Can you get my suitcase? It's next to the closet." Dawn tucks her pillow under her arm and then picks up a large Bellair's shopping bag. 

I grasp the handle of Dawn's sky blue suitcase and lift it. Barely. "Yes," I say with sarcasm, "why don't you carry the light items and I'll lug your suitcase full of cinderblocks down the stairs." 

"That was my plan," Dawn says and heads out the door. 

We load Dawn's belongings into the trunk of my car and we're halfway to Burnt Hill Road when Dawn begins speaking again. "Granny and Pop-Pop went to Greenvale with some friends to visit the antique shops. I think they're going to the country club, too, even though they didn't mention it. I have my suspicions though. They'll be shocked when they come home and I'm really gone. I don't think they believed I would really go back to Mom's. I keep talking about it and never do it," Dawn tells me and then leans over to adjust the radio settings. 

"Don't touch the radio," I snap. That is not allowed in my car. 

"Whatever," Dawn mutters and leans back in her seat. "I'm nervous. Mom and Richard don't know I'm coming back. I don't know how long it will last. Richard and I don't get along very well. It's the same with him and Jeff. Richard is so militant. It's like we're living in army barracks or something." Dawn pauses, her lips tight together. "Okay, maybe it's not _that_ bad. But in the mornings before he leaves for work, Richard comes into my room and flashes the light. He doesn't believe in sleeping in. It's summer vacation! He flashes the light and shouts, 'rise and shine!' and then leaves a list of chores for Jeff, Mary Anne, and I to complete. Of course, Mary Anne's never home. And neither is Jeff. Everyone avoids that house. I'm not the only one." 

I take awhile to respond, not knowing exactly what is expected of me. Finally, I say, "He limits Mary Anne's phone calls to ten minutes during the school year." 

"I know! I thought he loosened up a lot when he married Mom. I guess he did, but that was then. He's his old self now. I guess not all changes are permanent. Whatever." Dawn turns her head and stares out the window. 

Mary Anne's cat, Tigger, waits for us on the front porch, rushing down the steps to greet us as we unload the trunk, winding around our ankles and mewing. I bend down to stroke his back and scratch his neck. I'm not much of an animal lover, but I like Tigger. He's a nice cat, calm and low-maintenance. 

"Hey, Tigger," Dawn says to him as he follows her up the walk. "I bet you're lonely these days." Dawn moves slowly up the porch steps, digging through her purse for her house key. She finds it and turns it in the lock, pushing open the front door. She steps inside. 

I follow her into the house. Mary Anne's house. I've been inside this house a lot in the last three years, studying in the kitchen after school, watching movies in the living room, having sleepovers in Mary Anne's bedroom. This is Mary Anne's house. I don't think I've ever been here at the same time as Dawn. It's strange being here with her now, following her up the staircase and past Mary Anne's open bedroom door. It feels like a betrayal. 

"Have you been in my room before?" Dawn asks me, opening the door and sweeping inside, tossing her things onto the bed. 

"Not when you've been home," I reply, glancing around. I've come in here a few times over the years with Mary Anne to borrow things Dawn has left behind. There isn't much. Stationary and pens and winter clothes. Some books and photos. Not much more. 

"It smells weird in here," Dawn comments, sliding open her dresser drawer. She takes out a book of matches. "Stale." Dawn strikes a match and holds it over the wick of a mustard yellow candle. "Honeysuckle. Not my favorite scent, but it's all I could find downstairs when I first came back for the summer. Richard doesn't let Mom keep candles burning in the house. He says it's dangerous." 

"Oooh, contraband." 

Dawn giggles. 

Tigger wanders into the room, wraps around my ankles once more and then moves on to Dawn. Finally, he hops onto her bed and begins kneading a fuzzy multicolored star-shaped pillow. He purrs contentedly. 

"Poor Tigger," Dawn sighs and unzips her duffel bag. "Did you want something to drink or anything?" 

"No thanks. I'm not a big fan of carrot-turnip juice." 

"Mmm. Sounds good. That's okay though. You can help me unpack instead. Here, hang these up." Dawn tosses me a handful of clothes. 

I don't catch them. I let them fall to my feet. "What am I? Your maid?" I ask. 

"Of course not. You're my special helper." 

Dawn is so weird. Much weirder than I ever imagine. "Well, in that case..." I say and bend down to pick up the clothes. 

Dawn and I are nearly finished when the front door opens downstairs, banging hard against the wall and a chorus of loud voices rise up the stairs, winding along the staircase and down the hall toward us, pounding in the air like the pounding of their feet on the floorboards. A blonde-haired boy appears in the doorway with two others behind him, both of whom I unfortunately recognize as two of crazy Mallory Pike's many, many siblings. 

"Oh, it's you!" Dawn's brother cries. "I saw the Corvette and thought Mary Anne was back." 

"No, I'm the one who is back," Dawn replies, turning away from an open dresser drawer. 

"Good! It's been...you know, without you." 

There's a long and strange silence. 

"I figured," Dawn finally says. "Jeff, you know Grace, right? " 

Jeff and I nod. He visits more often than Dawn. 

"Hello," we say to each other. 

"And this is Mallory's brother, Jordan and her sister, Vanessa," Dawn introduces us. "This is Grace Blume." 

For being Mallory's brother and sister, Jordan and Vanessa appear remarkably average and normal. I've seen them around, of course, mostly from Stacey's bedroom window and her backyard. Jordan and Vanessa resemble each other slightly. They have the same chestnut brown hair, except Jordan's is short and spiky while Vanessa's falls stick straight down her back, held in place with a thick white headband. 

"We've heard about you," Vanessa tells me. 

I don't react. I don't even raise an eyebrow. I'm not surprised that she's heard about me. I was certain she had. 

Jeff runs a hand through his thick blonde hair and glances back at his friends. "Wait for me in my room, okay? I want to talk to my sister a minute." 

"Sure," Jordan replies and he and Vanessa vanish from the doorway. 

Dawn looks back at me a moment, then turns to her brother. "We'll go into the bathroom," she suggests and they, too, vanish. Dawn returns in a few minutes, frowning deeply, appearing distracted. 

"What's wrong?" I ask. 

Dawn waves her hand. "Nothing, nothing," she insists. "Jeff was just telling me some stuff that's happened. None of it is much of a surprise. I'm not sure how long I'll last here though." 

"That's a nice defeatist attitude." 

Dawn shrugs. 

Downstairs, the front door opens again, followed by the sound of high heels clicking in the foyer. Dawn stiffens. The high heels begin up the staircase. They move nearer. Dawn remains stiff and straightened. 

Sharon Spier appears in the doorway. She's dressed for the office in a black and tan business suit with her blonde hair pinned up. There are wisps of gray at her widow's peak. She's wearing two different shoes. Both are black, but one has a red bow on the toe and the other has a gold buckle. Mary Anne says her stepmother is incurably absent-minded. Stacey's mother says that Sharon must have done some serious drugs in the sixties. Julie's parents, however, insist she must still be using drugs. Once, the Bernsteins took care of Tigger while Mary Anne's family went to Washington D.C. on vacation. To thank them, Sharon made a tofu, bean sprout and zucchini casserole. Even though it wasn't from a kosher kitchen, Mr. Bernstein tried it to be nice. He ended up choking on an eraser. Personally, I think Mr. and Mrs. Stern may have a point. 

"Dawn!" Sharon cries, dropping her briefcase and holding out her arms. 

Dawn does not step into them. "Why are you home so early?" she asks. 

"Granny called me," Sharon explains, still holding out her arms. "She said you were coming home this afternoon. I hoped to be here to welcome you back. I planned to make a sugar-free plum and raisin cake!" 

I almost gag. 

"Dawn?" Sharon says, softly. 

Dawn steps into her mother's arms and hugs her tightly. 

"You're finally home," Sharon sighs, pressing her hands into Dawn's golden hair. "I thought Richard had run you off for good. You and Jeff and Mary Anne. I thought you wouldn't come back." 

"It isn't all Richard's fault," Dawn replies and steps back from her mother, releasing her. 

I watch from beside the dresser, leaning a shoulder against it, a bystander who should not be here, witnessing whatever unspoken words pass between mother and daughter. Sharon notices me. She looks confused. 

"Hello, Grace," she says. 

"Hello, Mrs. Spier," I reply. 

"Grace brought me back," Dawn explains. "Her grandmother lives across the street from Granny and Pop-Pop, you know." 

Sharon laughs, high and not all real. "Of course I know that! I lived right across the street for eighteen years! I know where Mrs. McCracken lives!" 

"She's making Grace hang out with me." 

Inwardly, I groan. 

Sharon cocks an eyebrow in the same way Dawn does. "Oh? Really? That's...odd. That doesn't sound like Mrs. McCracken." 

"She's _very_ pushy and forceful, apparently," Dawn tells her mother. "And she wields a lot of power over Grace." 

I roll my eyes. 

Sharon continues to appear confused, but laughs anyway. "You girls!" she exclaims and comes further into Dawn's bedroom. She begins picking through the remaining clothes in Dawn's suitcase. She holds up a pair of khaki pedal pushers. "These are cute, Dawn. I'll have to borrow them sometime." 

Dawn sighs. 

Sharon doesn't appear to notice. "These clothes all look kind of old though. Did Carol buy them for you? I'm not sure they're my taste. Now that you're home, we'll have to start hitting the stores in the evenings. We'll do some major shopping. Mary Anne hates shopping with me. She hates everything I pick out for her. You and I have a lot of time to make up, Dawn. Maybe we'll go tonight or tomorrow night. Richard won't like it, but..." Sharon waves her hand. "I'll make you something special for dinner, sweetheart. I'll make a soybean stir-fry." Sharon kisses Dawn's cheek and then wanders out of the bedroom, leaving behind her briefcase and taking Dawn's stapler instead. 

"She's very happy to see you," I point out. 

"I know," Dawn says, but doesn't sound pleased. "It's just that..." Dawn pauses and the pause drags on. She doesn't begin again. 

I search for something else to talk about. I study the top of Dawn's dresser. There's a heavy layer of dust, gathered around the things that rest there, picture frames and seashells and a tiny stuffed rabbit. There's a framed strip of photos of Dawn and Mary Anne taken in a photo booth. Mary Anne's hair is cut very short. An old photo. A photo from one of Dawn's many past lives. Another photo sits beside it, a photo of four blonde girls lounging beside a swimming pool. I recognize Dawn, but not the others. 

"These are your California friends?" I ask Dawn, lifting up the orange and yellow polka dot frame. A large dust bunny clings to the bottom. 

Dawn glances over and comes toward me. A shadow passes over her face, briefly, disappearing quickly. "Oh, yes," she says, casually. "Sort of. This is an old picture. That's Sunny and Maggie...and Jill. An old picture. I didn't realize I still had it out." Dawn takes the frame from me and slides open the top dresser drawer. She lays the frame inside, upside down, and closes the drawer again. She offers no explanation. 

"Let's go downstairs," Dawn suggests. "I'll show you Mom's old yearbooks. We can see your aunt!" 

"You're obsessed with my aunt." 

"I am not. I'm curious, that's all," Dawn says and leaves the room. 

I follow behind her. We pass Jeff's closed bedroom door. On the other side, there's loud voices mixing with laughter and the hum of the television. Dawn leads me down the stairs and creeps past the kitchen, where the door stands open and inside, Sharon's bustling around with her back to us. Dawn and I duck into the living room. I fall back onto the pale blue couch and wait for Dawn. She starts toward the bookcase on the far wall, but stops and instead heads for the television set. She drops to her knees and pulls a navy blue-covered yearbook from the top of the VCR. 

"Mom's senior yearbook. Don't ask me how I knew it was there," she explains and sits down beside me. She begins flipping through the pages. "First, I'll show you Richard because he looks like a total dweeb. Wait until you see his crew cut!" 

Dawn and I giggle over his photo for a moment and then turn back the pages. "Here's my mom," Dawn informs me, jabbing her finger at Sharon's photo. "Sharon Emerson Porter. She looks very sophisticated and dignified, don't you think?" 

"Sure," I agree, "for someone with a beehive." 

"It's kind of cool," Dawn says and scans her finger up the page along the names. "I found your aunt! She and Mom are on the same page! All these years I've been looking at Mom's photo and never noticed her!" 

Aunt Margolo's in the top left corner, the first photo on the page. Margolo McCracken. That's all it says beneath her photo. She looks exactly as I expected, exactly as I've always seen her look in photographs. Cool and distant, gazing off somewhere far away, beyond the photographer, beyond anything that may be really there. She doesn't smile. She is a blank slate. 

"She isn't...she isn't what I expected," Dawn admits, her finger still poised beneath Aunt Margolo's name. 

"What did you expect her to look like? Someone on the verge of suicide?" 

"Of course not!" 

"Well, this is how she always looks in pictures. She didn't kill herself until a couple years later. And sorry to break it to you, but she looks like this in later photos, too. Is your morbid curiosity satisfied?" 

"No," Dawn says in a simple, honest tone. "Let's see if she wrote in Mom's yearbook." Dawn turns the page, turning Aunt Margolo down, Aunt Margolo and her far away gaze. Dawn scans the front cover and the back cover and then all the pages in between. There is nothing signed with Aunt Margolo's name. "Granny said Mom and your aunt used to be best friends. I guess they already weren't." She sighs. "Want to hear what Mom wrote to Richard in his yearbook? Let me get it. Mary Anne and I used to think it was sweet." Dawn jumps up and crosses to the bookcase, returning with another yearbook. She sinks down beside me. "Here it is - 'Dearest Richie: Four years weren't enough. Let's start over. How can we part? We have one more summer. Hold on to it, Richie. Love is blind. Always and forever, Sharon." 

I gag. 

"I know!" Dawn cries with a laugh and slams the yearbook shut. "And now look at them." 

I stop gagging and sit quietly. 

Dawn sighs and returns both yearbooks to the bookcase. 

Dawn collapses into an armchair and props her feet on the ottoman. She stares at her toes. They're painted canary yellow, but most of the polish has chipped off. Dawn should care more about her appearance. 

Sharon comes into the living room, grinning and wiping her hands on a red baseball cap. "What are you girls laughing about in here?" she asks and perches on the arm of Dawn's chair. 

"We were looking at your old yearbooks," Dawn tells her mother. 

Sharon chuckles. "No wonder you were laughing!" 

"We saw Grace's aunt. Granny told me that you and she were once best friends. She didn't sign your yearbook. Why did you stop being friends?" 

Sharon's jaw tightens. "Who remembers that far back?" she asks and rises. She leaves the living room without another word. 


	20. Chapter 20

When I return home from Mary Anne's, it's after five o' clock and my house is empty. In the kitchen, I pour a glass of orange and then make my way through the house, pausing to play the messages on the downstairs answering machine before continuing upstairs to my bedroom. The messages downstairs are all for my parents, but on my own answering machine messages wait from Gran and Mari. I call both back, but neither answers. I wonder where they are. It's too soon for the Wednesday night service at church. Likely, Gran is in her garden and Mari's in her kitchen, cooking with her parents and ignoring the ring of the telephone. 

I drink my orange juice by the open window, looking down on Locust, watching the Hill kids ride their bicycles in the street with their friends. I turn away when I am finished, leaving the empty glass on the windowsill to be collected later. This afternoon has worn on my mind, this afternoon and last. I've thought a lot about Gran's attic and its locked door and now, about Dawn's mother's yearbook and what was there and what was not. There are so many questions without answers and no one is speaking. 

Our own attic is accessible through a closet at the end of the hall. When I was younger, Cokie and I went up there often because my mother had boxes of old clothes stored there. Most of the boxes are gone now, weeded through and thrown away. Still, there are some worth opening and looking in. Not clothes, but other things my mother keeps boxed up and shoved out of sight inside the dark and gloomy attic. 

Inside the closet, I pull down the ladder through the trap door and climb up, fumbling at the top for the pull chain of the light. I tug it hard and the attic becomes dimly illuminated until I pull myself all the way up and am able to reach the proper light switch. Nearest the ladder are boxes of Christmas decorations, lights and wreaths and the four fake trees my parents put out each year. My parents very much enjoy Christmas, which is surprising because it's not the sort of thing I'd expect them to care about. I pass those boxes and head to a back corner, where I last saw my mother's boxes. I find them where I left them last, stacked in the corner, held together with old, worn tape. I push aside the ones I know contain clothes and other things I am not interested in. Despite the fact that nothing is labeled as anything other than "Fay", I easily find the box I am searching for. I peel back the tape that doesn't really stick anymore and fold open the box. My mother's own yearbooks sit inside, stacked in a row - junior high and high school and college. I pull out the four from high school along with a slender, dark green leather bound photo album. Satisfied, I close the box and hugging the books to my chest with one arm, climb back down the ladder. 

I settle with the yearbooks in the living room, sinking into the couch and opening Mom's senior yearbook on my lap. The inside cover is so crowded with messages and signatures that no one else could possibly have fit another word in. The following pages and the back cover are the same, a sea of black and blue ink, letters crashing into each other, all for my mother. She was very popular. I turn to the index and find "McCracken, Fay". Her name is followed by a long string of page numbers. She's the only McCracken listed. Aunt Margolo would have still been at Stoneybrook Middle School. I'm searching for Mom's senior picture when the downstairs telephone rings. 

"Grace, this is your mother." 

"Hello, Mother," I answer, perching on the edge of her desk where the telephone rests. "I was just thinking about you." 

There's a moment of pause. "Oh?" Mom says, her tone hinting at surprise. "Were you thinking horrible thoughts about me?" 

"No." 

"Good," Mom says and her voice has become airy and light, more like how I am used to. "I am calling to inform you that we will be late tonight. Hal is stuck in a meeting. I don't think it will ever end." Mom sighs, heavy and burdened. "_Alla_," she says and sighs again. "I wanted to let you know. I'm not sure when we'll be home. Commuting can be such an inconvenience. But I'm certainly not taking the train home by myself! You'll be fine without us, I suppose. You _can_ manage to feed yourself and not burn down the house. I am just assuming these things, so please don't disappoint me." 

"I think I'll be okay for another few hours," I assure Mom. "However, the urge to burn down the house _is_ a bit overwhelming at the moment." 

"Just save my clothes and shoes," Mom says. "Oh, and yourself." 

"Thanks." 

Mom's silent on her end for several seconds. Like our face-to-face conversations, this is how phone calls are with my parents, full of random silences while they try to think of what to say to me. 

"Remember I was telling you about that charity event Hal and I are going to this weekend?" Mom finally asks. 

"Yes. Have you found a dress yet?" 

"No, I've not even had time to begin looking," Mom replies and then pauses. "What are you doing on Friday?" 

"On Friday?" I answer, perplexed at the sudden change of topic. "Nothing." 

Mom pauses once more. "Do you want to help me find a dress?" she asks. 

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Come to New York?" I reply and the surprise comes across in my voice, startled and high. 

"Yes. If you want to, that is. I suppose I can take the afternoon off. I really don't have a choice. I have to buy a new dress, If you want to, you can come along. I wouldn't want to purchase something you disapprove of, such as something that is not purple. You could take the train in. Although, I do hate the idea of you riding all the way into the city alone. I'd meet you at the train station, of course. Maybe I could wait right _on_ the platform. New York is full of creeps." 

"I've taken the train by myself before," I remind her. I haven't done it very often, but on the occasions I have nothing of note has happened. I get on at the Stoneybrook station, have an uneventful trip, and then at the end of the line, one of my parents or one of their assistants waits for me. Even so, I know how paranoid my parents are about New York. Mom doesn't even like to walk alone from the front door of her office building to the curb to hail a taxi. She used to live in Manhattan and I can't imagine how she ever managed. "I'd like to come to New York," I tell Mom. It is rare that she invites me. 

"Really? Okay. We'll discuss it more tonight. I'll check the train schedule. I have to go now, Grace. My idiot assistant is standing in the doorway, flailing her arms like a madwoman. I'm going to shoot someone in Human Resources." 

And then Mom hangs up. 

I return to the living room and pick up Mom's yearbook again. I find her senior picture. She looks very much like me. Or I look very much like her. Her hair is long, hanging in loose curls over her shoulders and down the front of her dress. She's smiling, showing her teeth. She looks different from the mother that I know, and yet, somehow, she looks the same. Underneath her picture, _Fay McCracken_ is printed in bold black and beneath it, a list of all her accomplishments in her four years at Stoneybrook High. Four years of her life summed up right here in front of me, in tiny black type, cramped and crowded and barely fitting in the alloted space. _Varsity tennis, varsity swimming, French Club, debate team, math club, science decathlon, spirit squad, Homecoming Princess, Homecoming Queen._ Prom Queen should be at the end of the list, rounding out Mom's achievements. But prom came too late, at the end of the school year when the yearbook was completed, too late for a complete account of Mom's various successes and victories. 

In the Student Life section, there's a photo of Mom standing on a tennis court in a short tennis dress, leaning on her racket and laughing, mouth open wide and eyes squinting. She's in the center between two other girls, who are posing for the camera, too, and laughing with my mother. The girl on Mom's right has short, curly dark hair and balances on one foot, the other kicked up behind her, and the girl on Mom's left has her fair hair pulled high into pigtails, her hands on her hips, laughing and looking off to the side at someone unseen and now forgotten. Below the photo their names are printed, declaring them to be forever known as _Sue Sanderson_ and _Taffy Rheardon_, much like my mother is to be _Fay McCracken_, forever set down in memories and black ink. Sue Sanderson and Taffy Rheardon, I know, grew up to be the mothers of Erica Blumberg and Katie Shea. They were my mother's best friends. None of them are friends now. My mother says that's just the way things are when you grow up and grow apart. 

I can't imagine my mother ever being friends with anyone called Taffy. 

The chime of the doorbell startles me. I jump slightly at its sound, dropping the yearbook on my lap. Shutting the book, I rise from the couch and cross into the foyer and peer out through the peep hole. A pair of large blue eyes stare back at me, close to the peep hole as if she knows I'm looking out at her. 

"Didn't I just leave you?" I ask when I open the door. 

Dawn glances at her wrist, but there isn't a watch there. "That was over an hour ago," she says. 

"And already you've run away again?" 

"I didn't run away," Dawn replies, a slight rise in her voice. "Richard loaned me his car," she says, gesturing to the driveway where a maroon Chevy Cavalier waits. "I'm not sure he fully realized that he loaned it to me. He and Mom were arguing when I asked. He threw me the keys and said to be home by ten. Then Mom said no, to be home by midnight and a whole different argument began. I didn't wait around to learn my actual curfew. I took the keys and ran." 

I point a finger at her. "So, you _are_ running." 

"No. Poor word choice. I didn't literally run. I walked very quickly." 

"You lead a fascinating life." 

Dawn shrugs and leans in through the doorway. "What are you doing?" she asks. "Are your parents home?" 

"No. They're still in the city," I reply and am grateful for that. What would Mom say to Dawn showing up on our doorstep? 

"Are they ever here?" 

I scowl at her. "Of course. They're just very busy at the moment. They have very important and stressful jobs. They took me to Fiji, you know, and now they're behind in their work. They're just catching up." 

"You're very insistent about that," Dawn says, breezily and straightens out of the doorway. "Do you want to go out somewhere? I mean, I don't think there's anywhere to _go_ in Stoneybrook, but anything is better than being at Mom's house right now. What do you usually do for fun?" 

"We go to Argo's or come here to swim," I answer. "Or we go to Julie's or Stacey's. If it's autumn or winter, we go to Emily's to use her hot tub. And of course, we go to Washington Mall." 

"Small town life," Dawn says with a chuckle. 

I frown at her. Stoneybrook may not be California, but there's nothing wrong with it. Not even Stacey makes endless comparisons between it and New York anymore. "I like Stoneybrook," I tell Dawn with an edge to my voice. 

"That's because you don't know any better," she replies and then pauses. "Okay, that was mean. Of course you like Stoneybrook. This is your home. It's different for me. Now, hurry up and get your purse. You complain about me being slow!" 

I don't recall agreeing to go anywhere with her, but I leave the foyer and trot up the stairs to my bedroom to retrieve my purse. Quickly, I check my hair and make-up and then return downstairs, pausing in the office to write my parents a note. I tape it to the liquor cabinet where they'll be sure to see it. 

"Where are we headed?" I ask Dawn when I'm seated in Mr. Spier's car, fastening my seatbelt. 

Dawn cocks an eyebrow. "Ohhh, you're letting me decide?" 

"It's your car, you're in charge. Consider it my gift to you." 

"Wow. Thanks," Dawn says, turning the car over. "Well, you've given me an exciting list of options, so I guess we'll just work our way down through them. First stop, Julie's house." 

The radio isn't working, so we have to listen to one of Mr. Spier's tapes. Dawn calls it jazz, but I call it elevator music and it makes me want to claw my eyes out. The tape plays for about ninety seconds and then I threaten to jump out of the car if Dawn does not remove it. She obliges, saying that my jumping from the car will surely get her car privileges revoked. The rest of the drive is silent, except for the sounds coming in through the open windows, a summer breeze blowing past, kids playing on the sidewalk, shouting and calling out each other's names. There's a large group of little girls playing in the front yard of the house across from Emily's. We pass it by, coming to a stop at the curb beside Julie's house. Pete Black's Saturn and Ross Brown's Jeep are already taking up the driveway and as Dawn and I step out of the Cavalier, we can hear boys' voices, loud and rough, drifting out through the Sterns' open windows. 

I knock sharply on the front door and press the bell. 

Dawn and I wait a moment, but the noise inside continues uninterrupted, our presence at the door unheard and unnoticed. I press the bell again and hold my finger there. 

"You're so impatient," Dawn observes. 

"I dislike waiting." 

Heels sound in the foyer then, drawing nearer, clicking underneath the voices. The clicking stumbles and Mrs. Stern's voice shouts out, "Son of a bitch!" and a moment later the door opens. 

"Having a problem?" I ask. 

Mrs. Stern holds the door open with one hand and rubs her right ankle with the other. She grins. "I'm fine," she says and steps back. "Come in. Hello and hello. Julie's in the living room with the boys. " 

"Did you fall?" I ask her. 

"No. I tripped over these damn shoes," Mrs. Stern replies, moving away from the door to the center of the foyer, where several pairs of sneakers are scattered, turned over and upside down. "I'm going to kill Paul. It's only fair. He seems to be trying to kill me. This way," she says and starts off toward the living room, her heels clicking on the tile again and her floral-print skirt rustling around her knees. 

"She is _so_ Julie's mother," Dawn whispers to me and then follows behind Mrs. Stern. 

Mrs. Stern makes it into the living room before us and shouts, "Paul! Why are you attempting to murder me? Your sneakers don't belong in the foyer!" 

"That's _exactly_ where they belong," Paul replies from the recliner. He doesn't look away from the television. No one does. Paul, Julie, Pete, and Ross all have their eyes fixed on the screen, staring at the video game Paul and Ross are playing. "How else will I find them when I want to go out?" 

"Is that the problem?" Mrs. Stern asks. "I'll put them somewhere that you'll certainly find them then." Mrs. Stern turns and leaves the living room, clicking back into the foyer. 

"She's putting your shoes in the trash can, I hope you realize that," Julie says. 

"Yeah, I know," Paul replies. "Or the refrigerator." 

"That sounds about normal to me," Dawn remarks. 

Julie finally removes her eyes from the television and turns her head to look at us. She's perched on the arm of the couch, legs folded indian-style. "Hi, Grace. Hi, Dawn. What's going on?" 

"Small town living isn't satisfactory for Dawn," I explain, moving closer to Julie. "She wants some excitement and thrills." 

"In Stoneybrook? Good luck," Pete snorts from the couch. "Is Mary Anne coming over?" 

I roll my eyes and Julie ignores him. "You've come to the right place then," she informs us. "This is thrill central. Mom's in the bedroom reading a magazine and Dad and Rachel are in the kitchen making guacamole. You really can't get more thrilling than that. Unless, of course, you go to Emily's house. I believe it's laundry night there." 

Dawn nudges me in the side. "See my point?" she asks. 

"This is suburbia," I tell her. "It's like this everywhere." 

"How depressing," she sighs. 

"But it's really good guacamole," Julie assures her. "Are we going out? I suppose I can eat guacamole another time." 

"Yes, we're going out. Come on," I command. 

Julie slides off the arm of the couch and pulls down on her jean shorts. She's wearing a pale pink t-shirt with a unicorn on the front, rearing back on its hind legs, its glittery horn pointed at the sky. "Don't worry your pretty red head," Julie says. "I'm not wearing this shirt. I'll go change." Julie strides out of the living room. 

"She could have worn the shirt," Dawn says and for some reason, her cheeks have taken a pinkish hue, as if she were blushing. 

"She would rather eat glass than be seen in public in that shirt," Paul comments from the recliner. He's relinquished his controller to Pete and now watches Dawn and I instead of the television screen. "Where are we going, darling?" he asks me. 

I narrow my eyes at him and then turn and leave the room. I'll wait for Julie in the foyer. If I speak to him, Paul may get it in his head that he's actually welcome wherever we are going. Julie appears a few seconds later. To my pleasure, she's not only changed into a tank top of lovely blue hues, she's also put on mascara and lipstick. 

"I don't know if Emily will come," she says, as she shrugs on a periwinkle-colored zip-up sweatshirt, knowing Emily's is where we're headed next. "She refused to come to the phone when I called earlier. She's taking her punishment seriously." 

I roll my eyes and begin walking to the front door. Emily can be so dramatic. 

"We'll wait in the car," I offer when we've pulled into Emily's driveway. Emily's bedroom light is on, shining dim in the dusk. 

"You should come in," Julie replies, opening the car's back door. "It may take the three of us to persuade her to come out from behind her desk." 

I look over at Dawn, who simply shrugs. Sighing, I unlatch my belt and climb out of the car. Fabulous. I do _love_ seeing the Bernsteins on a near daily basis. No doubt Mrs. Bernstein will be in an especially cheery mood this late in the day. 

Julie barges right through the front door without knocking. "Hello, Bernsteins!" she calls out. 

Dawn and I enter the house more cautiously. I pause in the doorway a moment, listening for the sounds of a fight. I never know what I'll walk into when I come into Emily's house. I've had a few surprises. But tonight the house is quiet. 

Julie's left us behind and we find her in the living room with Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein. The Bernsteins stand beside the couch with a large beige towel stretched out in the air between them. Two laundry baskets sit on the couch, a white one full of freshly laundered towels and a blue one half-stacked with folded ones. Julie was correct. It is laundry night. 

"Good evening, ladies," Mrs. Bernstein greets us, tonelessly. 

"Hello," Dawn and I reply. 

Mr. Bernstein glances over at us and smiles, then quickly returns his gaze downward to the towel. 

"Emily is upstairs in her bedroom," Mrs. Bernstein informs us. 

"I'll go up for her," Julie volunteers and looks back at Dawn and I. "She probably won't come down. You'll both have to come up to persuade her," Julie says and jogs toward the stairs, taking them two at a time. She disappears at the top of the landing. 

"She won't come down," Mrs. Bernstein says. She and Mr. Bernstein fold over one side of the towel, followed by the other and then come together, folding it vertically. Once and then twice. Mrs. Bernstein sets the towel in blue basket while Mr. Bernstein shakes another beige towel out of the white basket. I'm sort of shocked that he's not ironing it first. "She wouldn't come down for dinner," Mrs. Bernstein explains, taking an end of the towel from Mr. Bernstein. "I had to serve her at her desk. I hope this isn't becoming a routine. Such silliness." She gives Mr. Bernstein a pointed look, but he's staring down at the towel, avoiding Dawn's and my eyes, and doesn't notice. 

I don't think Mrs. Bernstein expects any kind of response and I have none to give, so I simply stand there, hands on my hips, and stare impatiently up the staircase. I tap my foot. Dawn steps on it with her hideous Birkenstock. I glare at her briefly and drop my arms, tearing my focus from the staircase and returning it to the Bernsteins. They're still folding the towels. My eyes sweep over Mrs. Bernstein, checking out today's weather-inappropriate outfit and then my gaze shifts to Mr. Bernstein. And then back again. Mr. Bernstein's wearing tan slacks with a pale green shirt. Plaid, of course since he wears nothing else. Mrs. Bernstein's wearing a long tan skirt with a long-sleeved shirt in grass green. I really hope they're not becoming one of those couple who dress alike. 

"You match, you know," I point out to them. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein pause in their folding. Mr. Bernstein glances up. I can only see his face in profile and miss whatever look he gives Mrs. Bernstein. 

"All right, yes, someone noticed," Mrs. Bernstein says, irritably. "I won't ever wear the same color as you again. Next time I'll change." 

Oh, well, whatever the story is behind that, I'm glad I missed it. 

Julie and Emily finally appear on the landing and come down the stairs side by side. I wouldn't have guessed that Emily's been chained to her desk all day. Her hair is curled as neatly as usual and held in place with a thin navy blue headband. Her make-up is done and she's dressed in khaki shorts and a navy blue fitted polo with green piping. She didn't do all this in the last five minutes. She's been sitting in her room looking that perfect all day. I have to wonder if she's even coming out with us, that is until I notice her purse hanging from her shoulder. 

"Where are you going?" Mrs. Bernstein wants to know. 

"Out," Emily replies. "No one's told me where yet. Where are we going?" she demands. 

Dawn shrugs. 

Mr. Bernstein checks his wristwatch. 

"It's not that late," Emily protests before Mr. Bernstein even has a chance to speak. "It's not that late, Mom." 

"I only asked where you are going," Mrs. Bernstein replies. "That's what your father would like to know, too. Isn't that right, Bernie?" 

Mr. Bernstein nods without looking at her or Emily. 

"But I, obviously, don't know where we're going." 

"I realize that now." 

This could go on forever. "We're going to Argo's," I tell them. 

Mrs. Bernstein looks at me over the top of her glasses. "Why didn't you say that before?" she asks me and without waiting for an answer says to Emily. "All right, you may go. Get some money from your father." 

Mr. Bernstein already has his wallet out. He hands Emily several bills and in return, she trades him a black and white composition notebook. Mr. Bernstein takes the notebook and smiles, a smile that flickers on her momentarily before settling on the notebook. All his teeth show. That woodchuck smile of his. 

"Let's go!" I command, heading for the door, away from the Bernsteins, away from this strange house. It's freezing in here anyway. I should have brought a jacket. 

"Chauffeur service!" Emily exclaims when she sees the Cavalier in the driveway. 

"One of the few luxuries we have here in Stoneybrook," I say, opening the front passenger side door. 

Dawn rolls her eyes before ducking down into the driver's seat. We have to wait for Emily and Julie, who are messing with something inside Emily's purse. For some reason, they can't do it _inside_ the car. I sigh and drum my fingers on the dashboard. Dawn leans over to me. "Emily's father never said anything," she hisses. 

"Sometimes he doesn't," I reply. If Dawn insists on hanging around us, she has to get used to such things. 

Finally, Emily and Julie climb into the car and Dawn backs out of the driveway. Julie and Emily chatter the entire way to Argo's, filling up all the space in the car with their voices. I sit back and listen. I am used to this. I recognize a lot of faces from school when we step into Argo's. I nod to several kids as I pass while Julie and Emily wave, calling out to a group of girls in a back corner booth. Journalism girls, I think. I recognize them only vaguely. We head to our usual booth, walking in a straggled line with Julie walking backward, carrying on a shouted conversation with the girls in the booth. No one gives Dawn a second look. No one appears to know her. 

"I'm still full from dinner," Emily announces, sliding into the booth. "My mother made ravioli for dinner. It was really good. I'll just have a soda." 

"I already ate dinner, too, but I'm still ordering a cheeseburger," Julie says, taking her place beside Emily. "And a root beer float." 

"You're disgusting," I inform her, opening my menu, even though I have no intention of ordering anything other than what I always order. A patty melt and a pineapple soda. "How was your alien robot movie?" I ask Julie. 

"Fantastic!" 

"Lame," Emily counters. 

"You're nuts!" Julie argues. 

"No, but _you_ have awful taste in movies. You and my father and Uncle Malcolm. When the sequel comes out, the three of you can see the movie together. My mother had the right idea. She went to the lobby halfway through the movie and we didn't see her again for over half an hour. She said the movie was so much more enjoyable when you didn't have to watch the whole thing." 

Our waitress appears to take our order and I wait until she's left to ask, "And what did the girlfriend think?" 

Emily shrugs. "Who knows? She doesn't really talk much." 

"Ah, well, she's perfect for Uncle Malcolm then since he doesn't really talk either." 

"Yes," Julie pipes up. "I'm sure it's a lot of fun for them, sitting around, staring at each other and not speaking. Uncle Malcolm needs someone with a personality. _I_ have personality to spare." 

"You should give some to Uncle Malcolm then," I suggest. "Or maybe to the girlfriend." 

"I'm not giving any to her!" Julie replies. 

"You're all _way_ too interested in Emily's uncle," Dawn informs us, unscrewing the cap on the bottle of sparkling water that the waitress just brought. 

I turn my head to scowl at her. I am not interested in Uncle Malcolm or any member of the Bernstein family in _any_ way. It's not my fault that Emily and Julie won't stop talking about him. "I'm not _interested_ in him," I tell Dawn. 

"I am," Julie says. 

"Just wait until you meet him," I remark to Dawn. "You'll have plenty to say about him, too." 

"You know, I'm sitting right here," Emily says, testily. 

I look over at her. "I know," I reply and turn back to Dawn. "Uncle Malcolm only wears blue shirts and - " 

"He doesn't do that anymore!" Emily protests. 

"And all the food in his refrigerator is organized by color," I continue. "And in his closet, all his clothes are organized by shades. Not just blues and browns either. Black. He claims to be able to tell the difference between shades of _black_." 

Dawn giggles and Julie adds, "He'll only plant bushes with blue flowering blossoms in his yard." 

I laugh. "I forgot about that! And remember that time we were at Emily's grandparents' house and he organized all the food on the table by color? And Rabbi Bernstein kept moving everything around and Uncle Malcolm got really upset about it?" 

"And then Mr. Bernstein wanted to organize everything by dish shape and size, too!" 

Dawn tosses her head back and laughs. 

"I'm glad this is all so _funny_ to everyone!" Emily cries. 

"But Emily!" I exclaim, "we haven't even gotten to the part where your grandmother began hitting them with the spatula!" 

"When are you having another family dinner, Emily?" Dawn asks, still laughing. "I want to come next time!" 

Emily purses her lips. "Uncle Malcolm's out of town until next week," she answers, tightly. "And I suppose things aren't so _funny_ if he's not around." 

"No," I agree. "You really need Mr. Bernstein and Uncle Malcolm together." 

"Does Uncle Malcolm stutter, too?" Dawn asks. 

The table falls silent. 

Dawn's cheeks flush bright pink. Emily purses her lips even tighter. They almost disappear completely. 

"Oh..." Dawn says, quietly. "I didn't mean...I'm sorry." 

Emily unpurses her lips, but still doesn't speak for several seconds. Time drags past at a slow and excruciating pace. "Not anymore," she finally answers. 

"I'm sorry," Dawn repeats. 

"It's okay," Emily replies in a strange and strained voice. "Everyone knows my father stutters. It isn't a secret." 

Julie folds her arms on the table and steals a quick glance at Emily before setting her eyes directly on Dawn. "It's just a bad week," she explains and then looks again at Emily, but Emily doesn't notice because she's staring out the window, out at the settling night and the fast emptying street. 

"I'm going to New York on Friday," I announce to change the subject. That is what is best. Change the subject and pretend the last one never happened. Bury it away until it is forgotten. "I'm going shopping with my mother. I'm taking the train into the city." 

"That sounds fun," Julie says, absently, stealing another glance at Emily. 

The flush is slowly disappearing from Dawn's face. It's almost gone. "I haven't been to New York in ages," she comments. "What will you buy?" She doesn't sound particularly interested. She's making a half-hearted effort, still distracted by her slip up. 

Emily looks away from the window, returning to our group. "Stacey, Mary Anne, and I went to New York over Spring Break," she says, her voice remaining somewhat strained. "We stayed with her father and stepmother. They kept putting us in taxis and sending us away." 

"Mr. McGill hasn't changed then?" Dawn asks and avoids Emily's gaze, looking instead at her bottle. 

"Hasn't changed from what?" asks a voice from the end of the booth. 

All four of our heads snap around and Stacey is standing there at the edge of our booth with her fingers pressing on the table edge. She scans our faces with her eyes, starting with Julie, working clockwise around the table until she reaches Dawn and her focus settles there, studying Dawn, boring into her. 

"What's going on here?" 


	21. Chapter 21

I watch the color drain from Emily's and Julie's faces. I remain calm, regarding Stacey impassively, giving nothing away. I nod to her. "Hello, Stacey," I say, slow and cool. 

"Hello," she replies, taking her eyes off Dawn, moving them to me. "What's going on here?" she asks again and we all know what she really means. _What are you all doing with Dawn?_

"We're having dinner," I answer. "What are you doing here?" 

"The same. I'm with Mom," Stacey says and turns, pointing behind her. Mrs. McGill's seated at a table tucked away behind the counter, almost completely obscured from our view. She smiles and waves. 

"Where's Mary Anne?" Dawn asks, staring in Mrs. McGill's direction, hand lifted but unmoving. 

"She's staying with her grandma for a couple days." 

Emily wrinkles her nose. "What's all this staying with grandparents business?" 

"What were you saying about my dad?" Stacey asks, ignoring Emily's comment. 

"I wasn't saying anything." 

"You said _something_, Emily." 

"We were just talking about New York," Dawn cuts in, her voice casual, all the awkwardness and embarrassment evaporated. "Emily said you guys stayed with your dad over Spring Break. I said he hadn't changed then. Remember how he always let you drag the BSC along on your visits? That's all I meant." 

"Oh," Stacey says, frowning. She may believe Dawn. She may not. 

"Do you want to join us, Stace?" I ask her. 

Stacey hesitates and glances back at her Mom. "Mom and I are about to leave," she says and behind her, Mrs. McGill's counting out money, which she slides beneath a half-empty water glass. She slips out of the booth and heads toward us, carrying her purse over her shoulder and Stacey's in her hand. 

"Hello, girls," she greets us, stopping beside Stacey. She smiles and pushes her long blonde hair back over her shoulder. "Everyone's here, I see." 

"Except Mary Anne," Stacey points out. 

"Except Mary Anne," Mrs. McGill repeats and looks over at Dawn. "Too bad." 

"Can Stacey stay with us, Mrs. McGill?" Emily asks. 

"Of course," Mrs. McGill replies and smiles again. "As long as you promise to keep all your food on your plates." 

Mortification washes over me and I hope it doesn't show on my face. 

"I thought we were going to the supermarket?" Stacey asks her mom. 

Mrs. McGill chuckles. "I think I can manage on my own, Stace. Besides, don't you dread the A&P? I can go by myself. Stay with your friends and have a good time. Besides, if you're not going to be home, I won't feel guilty about stopping off at work afterward. I'll see you at home later." Mrs. McGill pats Stacey's back and smiles at us once more. "Goodbye, girls. Behave yourselves," she says and chuckles again. "And Stacey? Don't be snacking. You've already had a big meal. Remember what Dr. Werner said during your last appointment." And then Mrs. McGill leaves us with a final smile and wave. 

Stacey rolls her eyes and sighs. "She's become such a nag lately," Stacey complains. 

I can't see what Stacey has to complain about. 

"Scoot over, Julie," Emily commands. "Sit down, Stacey." 

Stacey remains hesitant. She stares down at the space Julie has cleared for her. For several passing moments, she makes no move at all, remaining tall and still, towering above us, looking down. Finally, she slides in beside Julie, completely our fivesome in our usual booth. Except we are without Mary Anne and instead in her place sits Dawn, Our replacement fifth, our imitation Mary Anne. Stacey watches her a moment and then looks away. 

"Why were you talking about New York?" Stacey asks me. 

"Because I'm going there on Friday. I'm taking the train in to go shopping with my mother." 

Stacey's eyes widen. "Really? I thought you weren't allowed to take the train." 

I fight back a fierce flush. "Of course I'm allowed to take the train!" I say, snappishly. 

"You weren't allowed to over Spring Break." 

Dawn glances over at me and cocks her eyebrow. 

I continue fighting back the flush of humiliation. "That had nothing to do with the train," I reply, edgily, voice rising slightly. "My parents don't want me traipsing around the city without adult supervision. The city is a dangerous place and my parents think your parents are nuts for allowing you to run around the city alone." I give Stacey a meaningful look and then turn it on Emily. 

"Your parents are paranoid," Stacey says, dismissively. 

"Better safe than sorry," says Julie, who has never admitted it, but is terrified of the city. 

Our waitress finally appears with our food and Stacey orders a diet soda. She watches as we begin eating, squeezing a lemon wedge into her soda and then stirring it in. She doesn't have much to say and she isn't acting like Stacey and we all know it's because of Dawn. 

"I'm going to New York this weekend, too," Stacey says, out of nowhere. "I'm visiting my dad and Samantha. They called last night to invite me. Samantha had a photo shoot in Vancouver canceled and now she and Dad are free to see me. I'm going on the one o' clock train. When are you going?" 

I shrug. "I don't know." 

"Come on the one o' clock train," Stacey suggests. "I'm sure it'll make your parents feel a lot better knowing you're with a seasoned New Yorker." 

"New York's overrated," Dawn pipes up, stabbing her fork into her salad. She lifts the bite to her mouth. "You and Mary Anne romanticize it too much." 

Stacey flips her thick blonde hair back and fixes Dawn with a steely stare. "I don't romanticize anything anymore," she replies. 

"Well, you don't talk to me anymore, so I wouldn't know that, I guess," Dawn says, lightly, and takes a huge bite of salad. 

I raise an eyebrow at her. Is Dawn attempting to pick a fight? I glance across the table at Emily and Julie, who shift in their seats, appearing almost unsure and uncomfortable. Emily pops one of Julie's french fries in her mouth and chews it a long time before swallowing. 

Stacey doesn't say anything. She sips her soda. 

"I'm not an ogre," Dawn points out. 

"If you are, you're the prettiest ogre I've ever seen," a male voice drawls. 

I groan, looking up to see Logan Bruno approaching our table with Cary Retlin trailing behind him. Wonderful. Two of my least favorite boys at Stoneybrook High. 

"Evening, lovely ladies," Logan says, stopping at our table. He tips his baseball cap at us. 

"Go away, Logan," I snap. 

Dawn kicks me under the table. "Hi, Logan," she greets him and then eyes Cary. "Cary?" she asks. 

Cary has the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his head, partially hiding his face and his shaggy blonde hair. He scowls at our table and nudges Logan. "Who the hell is that?" he asks. 

Logan chuckles. "Dawn Schafer, of course, the lovely lady I've been telling you about." He winks at Dawn. "You remember her. She's Mary Anne's stepsister," 

"Oh, yeah..." Cary says, but doesn't sound convincing. 

Logan leans against our table, staring down at Dawn, grinning. "So, what are you lovelies up to on this warm summer night? Are you in need of some male companionship?" 

Julie chokes on her cheeseburger. 

Emily scowls at him. "Logan Bruno, you are such a caricature of the South!" she cries, testily. "My mother's from Georgia and I am appalled on her behalf. You sound like a moron!" 

I can't help myself. I laugh and Julie joins in, coming in behind me, deep and full-throated. 

"You're a feisty one, Bernstein," Cary tells her. 

"Don't talk to me," Emily snaps at him. "And don't stand at my table either. I don't want people thinking I'm buying your drugs!" 

Cary laughs. "Ow. That stung, Em," he says and slaps Logan on the back. "We're not wanted by these lovelies. Shove on, pal." Cary turns and struts away to a corner booth, where his and Logan's friends wait. 

Logan grins and tips his hat again. Thankfully, he follows Cary. 

"_What_ was that about?" Stacey demands. 

I wave my hand. "Logan's hot for Dawn," I explain. 

"And making an ass of himself in the process," Julie adds, dunking a fry in her ketchup. 

"That was disturbing," Stacey says and finally looks at Dawn. "If you ever want to make up with Mary Anne, stay away from Logan. She'd freak out if you went out with him." 

Dawn's eyebrow cocks. "Why?" she asks, flatly. "Mary Anne dumped Logan in the eighth grade." 

Stacey shrugs. "You just wouldn't be doing yourself any favors," she says, coolly and looks away again. 

"What a loss," Emily comments, dryly. 

"Oh, no, he's coming back," I moan and press a hand to my forehead. 

"Sorry to bother you ladies again," Logan apologizes, "but I wanted to invite you to a party a friend of ours is having tonight. It's her birthday and her parents are out of town, so we're throwing her a little _soiree_ ." 

"Oh, _that_ sounds like a fabulous idea," I say, sarcastically. 

"Whose birthday is it?" Stacey asks. 

"You wouldn't know her. She lives near Howard Township." 

"Oh? Is this someone Cary sells drugs to then?" I inquire, innocently. 

"No. She's Austin Bentley's fourth cousin." 

I roll my eyes. If Logan, Cary, and Austin are all somehow involved, I _know_ I don't want any part of this. Austin's a drunk and a cad. Plus, he once dated Lauren Hoffman and there's absolutely no excuse for that. 

"I am uninterested like you wouldn't believe," Emily says, speaking my thoughts. 

"What kind of party is it?" Dawn asks. 

Logan punches her in the shoulder. "There's my kind of gal!" he exclaims. "It's nothing fancy. A few close friends, a few kegs, some food, some music. You want to go, don't you? And I know I can count on this wild lady to come along, too," Logan says and rests a hand on Stacey's shoulder. 

Stacey shoves it off. "There's nothing wild about me anymore," she remarks, coldly. 

"I _might_ be interested," Dawn tells Logan. "Can we have time to discuss it?" 

Logan holds up his hands. "But of course. Here's the address." He slaps a napkin down on the table. He winks and leaves us once again. 

I stare at Dawn, open mouthed. "You _must_ be joking!" I cry. 

Dawn picks up the napkin and shrugs. "It could be fun. There's not much else to do around here. My friends and I go to parties all the time back home. I'm not really interested in drinking. I'm usually the designated driver anyway." 

"Where is this party anyway?" Emily demands, snatching the napkin out of Dawn's hand. "This isn't in Howard Township! I know exactly where this street is! It's _nowhere_. My great aunt and uncle live out by there and the streets aren't even paved!" 

"You have way too much family," I inform her. 

"I know," Emily agrees and throws the napkin back to Dawn. "My cousin Michael's housesitting for them. We could visit him instead." 

"I don't want to visit Cousin Michael," I reply and then turn to Dawn. "Nor do I want to drive out to the middle of nowhere to a party with a bunch of drunk and stoned imbeciles. You don't live here. You don't know these guys. Any party that Cary and Austin are anxious to get to, you don't want to be there. Cary's a drug dealer. Everyone knows it. He sells drugs at the Stoneybrook Elementary playground." 

"And he got Dorianne Wallingford knocked up last spring," Julie adds. "She had an abortion and he told the entire school. Not even her parents knew about it. They found out from the football coach." 

"Cary's a sleaze," Stacey says with a nod. 

"Sounds like it," Dawn says, still studying the address and the crudely drawn map beneath it. "But still...it's a party. Besides, it's only - " Dawn grabs my wrist and checks my watch, "not even nine o' clock!" 

"It'll take half an hour to get there," I point out. "At least." 

Dawn shrugs. "So? We'll hang out, eat some food and listen to music for an hour and then come back. I don't have to be home until midnight. When's your curfew?" 

"I don't have one," I answer. 

"Neither do I," Julie echoes. 

"Midnight," Stacey says, "but even so, I'm absolutely not going." 

Dawn looks across the table at Emily. "My parents like me home by ten," Emily tells her, "but that's usually negotiable." 

Dawn wrinkles her face. "Ten?" she squeals. "That's wretched! Call them and ask if you can stay out later. Tell them things are really exciting at Argo's tonight." 

Emily frowns at Dawn. She isn't used to being given orders. But something flickers behind her frown. Emily...is giving in. 

"All right," Emily agrees. 

I groan. "Emily!" 

"I'll come, too, then," Julie says, which isn't a shock at all. 

Stacey and Julie slide out of the booth to let Emily out. She crosses Argo's and vanishes through the door to the restrooms where the pay phone is kept. I am aghast. I can barely wrap my mind around the fact that Emily Bernstein of all people wishes to wander off to Howard Township for a party that will, no doubt, turn out to be a complete disaster. Are Stacey and I the only sane ones in this booth? 

"Come on, Grace," Dawn prods, tugging on the hem of my shirt. 

"_Grace_," Julie whines. 

Stacey shakes her head at me. 

"How about this? If we walk in and the party's too crazy, we leave?" Dawn suggests, releasing my shirt. "I promise not to argue about it. We'll walk in, check it out, and if you want, we'll leave. If nothing else, we'll have had a gorgeous drive through the country...at night when we can't see anything." 

"No." 

Dawn points her finger at me. "You said that because I'm driving, I get to choose where we're going," she reminds me. "Ha! I've got you!" She smiles, triumphantly. 

I roll my eyes upward at the ceiling. I did say that. Why do I speak at all? "_Fine_," I say, thinly. 

"Good luck with that," Stacey tells me, sliding out of the booth. "I'll call you tomorrow about New York. That is, if you're still conscious." 

"Do you need a ride?" Dawn offers. 

"No thanks. I just saw Rick go out the front door. I'll catch a ride with him." Stacey waves over her shoulder and retreats, pushing out through the front door. 

"Stacey used to be so much more adventurous," remarks Dawn. 

Julie and I exchange a look, but neither of us says anything. Stacey is our friend and we won't speak her secrets to Dawn. Emily reappears just as Julie and I polish off our dinners. She beams at us and announces, "Eleven o' clock. I can stay out until eleven o' clock!" 

"Fantastic," Dawn says, pulling out her wallet and flipping it open. She counts out her portion of the bill and tosses it onto the table. The bills land on some diet soda that Stacey accidentally spilled. "I'll go tell Logan." She stands and strides away briskly toward Logan. When she returns, Logan and Cary are in tow. "Logan and Cary are ready to head out, too," she explains, leaning against the table. "We're just going to follow them, okay?" 

Emily, Julie, and I glance at each other and shrug. 

This is such a bad idea. 

"Do you have some kind of thing for Logan Bruno?" Julie asks Dawn when we're in the car and have passed out of Stoneybrook. 

"Not at all. We used to be friends, that's all." 

"Do you _really_ think Mary Anne would be angry with you if you did date him?" Emily asks, leaning forward between Dawn's and my seats. "She has no claim to him anymore." 

"Why are you asking, Emily? Are _you_ interested in Logan?" Julie teases. 

"Certainly not!" 

I glance back at them and laugh. 

Emily narrows her eyes and purses her lips. "Please, I don't have time for boys! And if I did, I wouldn't be after a moron like Logan. He isn't even Jewish!" 

I laugh again and Dawn and Julie join in. 

"Everyone thinks everything about my life is so _funny_ tonight," Emily complains, eyes still narrowed. "Do you want to hear something _really_ funny? My cousin Michael is in love with Julie!" 

"Emily!" Julie shrieks. 

I whirl around in my seat. "Cousin Michael? The rabbi's son? With the huge nose? _That_ Cousin Michael?" 

"His nose isn't that big!" Emily protests. "And that's such a stereotype, Grace Blume!" 

"Nevertheless, his nose is ginormous. Since when is he in love with Julie? Since when is _anyone_ in love with Julie?" 

"Cousin Michael isn't in love with me!" Julie shouts from the back seat, shoving Emily aside to lean between Dawn's and my seat. 

"Wait! Hold up!" Dawn yells, throwing her hands up off the steering wheel. "Who is Cousin Michael?" 

"My cousin," Emily answers. 

"Really? I didn't figure _that_ part out," Dawn replies. "Is this Uncle Malcolm's son?" 

"No," I answer, struggling to cross my legs in the small space of the front seat. The idea of Uncle Malcolm with a son is both frightening and baffling. I _still_ haven't figured out how Mr. Bernstein managed to have Emily. I don't see how he and Uncle Malcolm both could have accomplished such a feat. Lightning doesn't strike twice. 

Emily pushes Julie aside and leans in again. "No. Uncle Malcolm's never been married. He's a confirmed bachelor. Michael is Uncle Lee's son. Uncle Lee is my father's oldest brother. It's Uncle Lee, Uncle Malcolm, and then my father. Uncle Lee is a rabbi." 

I have to bite my tongue so I don't point out to Dawn that Rabbi Bernstein is, somehow, totally normal. I don't know what went wrong with Uncle Malcolm and Emily's father. The children in that family just became progressively bizarre. 

Instead of commenting on that, I chuckle and say, "So, the rabbi's only son is infatuated with a blonde -haired, blue-eyes Pentecostal girl? That's fabulous. Congratulations, Julie, you've just given the entire Bernstein family a collective heart attack." 

"He isn't in love with me," Julie insists. 

"That isn't what Uncle Malcolm's girlfriend says!" Emily exclaims in delight. "She told Uncle Malcolm that Michael is madly in love with you. Uncle Malcolm told my father and my father told my mother. My mother told me." 

Julie snorts. "That girlfriend's a liar. She just wants me out of the way because she knows I'm serious competition for Uncle Malcolm's affections. I bet she's seen his calves." 

"She's probably seen more than that," Dawn comments. 

Emily covers her ears and screams. 

"Ugh! Dawn!" I cry, wrinkling my nose. "That is so inappropriate in so many ways!" 

"Really, Dawn! I eat the Sabbath dinner with these people!" Julie shouts. 

Dawn laughs. "We were all thinking it. I just had the guts to say it." 

"No. I'm pretty sure you're the only one who was thinking it," I assure her. 

"I may never forgive you for putting that image in my head!" Emily barks from the back seat. 

Dawn laughs again. "You're welcome. Now...what are Logan and Cary doing?" 

I turn my head away from Emily to look out the front windshield. We've passed around Howard Township onto one of the darkened back roads. The streets are still paved, but in two narrow lanes. We've been following behind Cary's car, but now he's slowing and drifting into the next lane. 

"He's stoned!" Emily screams. 

"He isn't stoned," Dawn replies and begins rolling down her window while slowing the Cavalier. "What's going on, Cary?" she asks when the cars are side by side. 

"Bruno wants to race!" Cary shouts from his car. "Are you game?" 

"You want to race?" I shriek, leaning over Dawn. "Cary, you're in a Ford Fiesta!" 

"Don't mock my car, Blume," Cary sneers. "My mommy and daddy can't afford to buy me a fifty thousand dollar pity present. Now shut your damn mouth. Ready to race, Schafer?" 

I clamp my lips together and fall back into my seat, my face burning hot and furious. 

"You're a jerkoff," Dawn tells him. 

"Hey, you can jerk me off any time, Schafer," Cary calls out with a sly grin. "But you have to catch me first!" Cary slams on the accelerator and takes off. 

"He's an even bigger moron than Logan!" Emily cries. 

Dawn glances over at me, but I turn my head away. She looks behind her into the back seat. "Seatbelts on!" she orders and then slams her foot on the Cavalier's accelerator, sending the car and us shooting forward at a shocking speed. 

"What are you doing?" I demand, tightening my seat belt. 

"Catching Cary." 

"Stop!" I shriek at her. "This is really stupid!" 

"Grace is right!" Emily yells. "Slow down, Dawn!" 

"Slow down!" Julie echoes. 

Dawn speeds up. 

I close my eyes and hold my breath. The last time I did something like this, I ended up doing something very, very bad. I keep my breath in and my eyes closed. I see everything from then, everything in a blur. I open my eyes because I don't want to see. I don't want to remember. 

Cary's just ahead of us. We are catching him. 

Dawn grips the steering wheel, knuckles becoming white and bloodless. Her eyes remain trained straight ahead, focused on Cary, focused on her prize. She pulls nearer and nearer. I can't see the speedometer from where I sit. I don't lean over. I don't want to look. 

We pull up alongside Cary. Logan's waiting for us with his bare butt hanging out the window. 

"I hate him," I say, flatly. 

Dawn looks over and laughs. 

From around the curve in the road, a pair of headlights blaze bright yellow in the night, heading straight for Cary. The driver flashes the lights. Cary jerks his steering wheel, jerks it hard to the right, coming into our lane. Coming into our car. 

"Oh, my God!" Dawn screams and swerves. 

It happens in an instant. We're off the road, flying down the embankment, our screams echoing in the air, following over and under one another, piercing through the night. I throw my arms up to protect my face. I don't see us strike the tree, but I feel it, feel the impact and the pull of the seat belt cutting into my shoulder. 

I open my eyes. 

I'm still holding my breath. 

I release it and it comes out as a gasp, surprised and strangled. Beside me, Dawn sits ashen-faced, still gripping the steering wheel, lips bloodless like her knuckles. 

I can't turn around to look in the back seat. "Julie? Emily?" I say in a whisper. 

"Yes?" Julie responds. 

Emily bursts into tears. 

"Is everyone all right?" I ask and turn around, reassured that neither is dead. 

"Well...we just drove into a tree," Julie answers and Emily sobs harder. 

I turn back around and place my hand on Dawn's shoulder. "Dawn? Are you all right?" 

She opens her mouth. It remains open, no sound drifting from it. It hangs there open. 

"Dawn?" 

"Richard's car," she whispers. 

Hardly the worst of our problems. I unlatch my belt and push open the car door, stumbling out onto my long legs. They wobble beneath me. They wobble so much I must steady myself against the car, hands pressed onto the cool metallic roof. I didn't realize I was so shaken. Someone calls my name and I look up to see Cary and Logan running down the embankment. 

"Is everyone okay?" Logan bellows, rushing toward the car. 

"Yes," I answer and my voice barely carries. I clear my throat. "Yes!" I call louder. 

Logan and Cary reach the car and both curse furiously, repeating the same four-letter word over and over again. Julie appears through the back passenger side door, pulling a sobbing Emily behind her. Dawn stays in the car. She's still gripping the steering wheel. 

"Where's the other driver?" I ask. 

"Never stopped," Logan replies. "Are you sure Dawn's okay?" he asks, peering down through the front windshield. 

"She's worried about the car," I tell him and then laugh. It seems absurd. 

"Why is Bernstein crying like a baby?" Cary demands. 

"Why do you think?" I snap and shove him. "You jerk! Do you see what you've done?" 

Cary shoves me back. "Don't be such a bitch, Blume!" 

"I'll be a bitch if I want to, Cary! I just smashed into a damn tree!" 

"Calm down! Calm down!" Logan shouts, stepping between us. "Everyone's okay. No one's hurt. There's nothing to worry about. Cary and I will call a tow truck as soon as we get to the party." 

My jaw drops. I am speechless. 

"You're leaving us?" Julie shrieks. "You're leaving us?" 

Even in the shadows of the night, scarcely illuminated by the Cavalier's headlights, I can see Logan blush. "You see..." he begins, "Cary's license is kind of suspended and I...and I sort of have a DUI, so...we kind of can't be here..." 

I throw my arms into the air. "Fabulous! This is fabulous!" 

"We'll call as soon as we reach the party," Logan promises and hurries up the embankment after Cary. 

"They're leaving us?" Emily screams. She's a little behind. She's a little hysterical. "They're leaving us?" 

We hear the Ford Fiesta start up and they leave us. 


	22. Chapter 22

"How can they just leave us?" Emily screeches and scurries up the embankment, up toward the road, slipping in the loose dirt in her sandals, slipping back down as she tries to run up. 

"They have to come back!" Julie shouts, following behind Emily, following behind like she always does. "They have to come back!" 

I know they aren't coming back. 

I lean back into the car. "You need to get out of the car," I tell Dawn and my voice shakes. In my head, it is cool and calm, smooth as usual. But my lips and tongue betray me, like my legs, and my voice shivers in my throat and releases quivering and uncertain. "Please get out of the car, Dawn," I say, much softer. 

Dawn looks over at me, her face shadowed and stricken. She stares at me and blinks. "Richard is going to kill me," she says. Her voice doesn't shake. It is flat and hollow. Resigned. 

"Worry about that later. We have other problems now. Get out of the car." 

Finally, Dawn listens. She removes the key from the ignition and drops it inside her purse. She puts it there for safe keeping. Dawn climbs out of the Cavalier and slowly comes to meet me at the front of the car, where the headlights still shine around the maple tree, battered and broken. The entire front of the car, battered and broken, smashed hard into the heavy trunk of the tree. Dawn's breath quickens beside me. She stares at the front of the car, stares and studies, eyes crossing in a daze. 

"Oh, my God," she gasps and spins around, turning away from the car and wrapping her arms around herself. I think I hear her gasp again, "Oh, my God," before she begins up the embankment, stumbling all the way up. 

I start after her, then stop and go back to the car for my purse. I find it wedged beneath the passenger seat. I toss the strap over my shoulder and lean into the back seat, where I find Emily's purse on the floorboard, tangled up with Julie's saddle bag. All three dangling from my shoulder, I hurry up the embankment finally. 

It would be pitch black if not for the brightness radiating from the headlights below. By the time the light drifts up to us, it is dimmer, much slighter than we need. There is nothing around us. No street lamps, no road signs, no evidence of life. Nothing but trees. Trees and a long stretch of dark road. Dawn stands at the side of the road, arms folded over her head, staring down at the way we came, staring back down a road we cannot back track on. We cannot retrace our path and change our minds. It's too late. We have made our choice. What's done is done. There is no going back. 

I know the dull thudding pain of such a realization well. Slight and stinging as it grows. There is no going back now. 

"What are we supposed to do?" Julie asks, the huskiness of her voice cutting into the heavy silence of the nowhere night. 

Dawn turns around to regard us. Her face is shadowy still, her features blurred in the moonlight. She regards us silently, staring and blank, uncertain. I look over at Julie, crouched beside the trunk of a sideways growing pine, comforting Emily, sunken onto the dirt and needles, sobbing into her knees. Julie looks back at me, expectantly, waiting. Waiting for me. 

"I don't know," I reply. 

Julie blinks, surprised, as if I am the one who should have the answers. She glances back over at Emily, arm snaked around Emily's shoulders, and speaks to her words I cannot hear. Emily nods, but continues sobbing. Emily - sharp and forward Emily, who should be taking charge, who is always the one in charge, at the head of line, in control. And instead she is on the ground, in the dirt, quickly crumbling before our eyes. 

I step out closer to the road with Dawn. I gaze down one way and then the other. Either direction, all there is is darkness. A breeze is picking up and the air is dropping, cooler and cooler for a June night. It is no wonder Dawn can only stare. We are nowhere. There is nothing here. We may stand here all night long until the dark turns into daylight with the slow rise of the sun. We may stand here all that time and not have anyone come along. Cary and Logan may go back on their assurance. It would be no surprise. 

Emily says something that I think I hear. 

"Of course your mother's going to be ticked," I tell her, grouchily. 

"She said she _wants_ her mother," Julie replies, just as grouchily. 

I roll my eyes at the dark stretching road. What are we? Five? I fold my arms and walk a few feet farther down the road, farther down the direction we were going. There are no house lights down the hill. I spin back around and call out to Emily, "How far away do your aunt and uncle live?" 

Emily looks up, mascara and eyeliner pooling underneath her eyes. "About seven miles south," she answers. She wipes her eyes, smearing eyeliner across her right cheek. 

I spin around again and continue walking. We can't walk seven miles. We can't do anything except sit and wait and hope we can count on Logan and Cary. 

"Do you think it looks worse than it actually is?" Dawn asks me. 

"What?" 

"Richard's car. Do you think it looks worse than it actually is?" 

"I think when the sun rises and we see it properly, it's going to be a lot worse." 

Dawn groans and glances down the embankment to where the headlights shine. She groans again and then stomps off, flopping down in the dirt on Emily's other side. She folds her arms over her knees and leans her head back against the tree trunk. "I screw everything up," she moans. 

"It isn't _completely_ your fault," I assure her. 

"Oh, gee, thanks." 

I hold my arms tighter across my chest and move closer. "Well, you aren't completely blameless," I point out. "I told you to slow down. You shouldn't have been racing those idiots. But Cary shouldn't have been driving in the wrong lane and they shouldn't have left us out here. You're about...thirty percent blameless." 

"You're being generous," Dawn replies. "Now, how am I supposed to explain that - " Dawn jerks her thumb toward the embankment, "to Mom and Richard?" 

"Well, whatever you do, don't mention the car race," Julie says. 

"Definitely not," I agree. "Tell them you swerved because a mentally defective waste of space was coming into your lane. At least that's not a lie." 

"I'm not sure Richard will believe that." 

"Why not?" I ask. "It's the truth." 

Dawn shrugs. 

"I wouldn't worry about it," Julie says, looking at us over Emily's head. "Your parents will be so happy that you're not dead, they probably won't care about the car. When my mom was expelled from Bryn Mawr - " 

I roll my eyes. 

"I saw that, Miss Blume. It's not _that_ dark out here. And I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to Dawn. Now, when my mom was expelled from Bryn Mawr, she stole her parents' Cadillac and drove to D.C. where she dropped acid and accidentally drove off a bridge. Her parents were so thrilled that she didn't kill herself that they posted her bail and found her a lawyer. They didn't even care about the car." 

"I still don't believe that story," I tell Julie. 

"It's a good thing I wasn't telling it to you then." 

"I don't know if Richard's that charitable," Dawn says. "But I'll play up the fact that my neck isn't broken and there isn't a tree branch sticking out the back of my skull. Now how are we supposed to explain what we're doing out here in the middle of nowhere?" 

I shrug. I intended to tell my parents the truth. If I must tell them anything at all. 

"My parents think I'm still at Argo's!" Emily shrieks, as if the thought has just occurred to her. 

"You're dead," I tell her. 

Emily covers her face with her hands. 

"I'll just tell my parents the truth," Julie says. "And I'll emphasize that I told Dawn to slow down." 

"Thanks." 

"No worries, Dawn. We'll just tell everyone that we were headed out here so Julie could see her giant-nosed boyfriend," I suggest. 

"He isn't my boyfriend!" Julie protests, agitation rising into the night. 

"We'll say that Dawn wanted to check him out," I continue. "Him and his enormous, ill-proportioned nose." 

Emily drops her hands and stares at me, aghast. "I can't lie to my parents!" she shouts. 

"You lied to them on the phone," I point out. 

"I mislead them. I didn't _lie._ And that was over the phone. I can't lie to their faces. My mother knows when I'm lying. She can see it in my eyes." 

"It's true," Julie says. 

"Oh, who cares?" I snap and take a wide step back into the road. "It doesn't matter! We're stuck in the middle of nowhere and you'll probably never _see_ your mother again _to_ lie to her. We're going to be stuck here forever, sitting at the side of this blasted road, waiting for an imaginary tow truck that Logan Bruno forgot to call because he's busy drunkenly groping fourteen year old girls!" 

"So...you don't think we'll be rescued?" Julie asks, dryly. 

"Richard's car!" Dawn moans again. 

I remain in the road, arms wrapped around myself, waiting for headlights I know aren't coming. I wonder if anyone misses me, if anyone has noticed I'm gone. How long could I stand out here, in the pitch dark, before my parents thought to worry? Maybe they wouldn't at all. 

Time ticks by, moving slowly into minutes, increasing in numbers, time piling up. Emily's stopped crying. Occasionally, Dawn moans. Otherwise, there is nothing but empty time drifting away from us. I keep watch in both directions, turning one way and then the next. It seems as if hours slip away from me. I tap my foot on the gravel road, tap impatiently, waiting, waiting. I dislike waiting. In the shadows of the trees, mumbling voices rise between the others until they are loud and clear, wavering slightly now and again. Dawn and Emily and Julie are singing, _Just call me angel of the morning, angel._ It's a song I don't recognize. _Just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby_. I walk farther away and their voices follow me in harmony. _Just call me angel of the morning, angel._

They're on the fifth round of the song when the headlights appear. The headlights appear over the hill, coming from where we were going. For a moment, I think it must be Logan and Cary, returning for us, and cannot decide whether the possibility infuriates or delights me. I settle on indifference and throw my arms into the air, waving them in wide circles. 

When the red and blue lights begin flashing and a siren wails, I realize it's definitely not Logan and Cary. 

"Logan and Cary sent the cops!" Dawn exclaims, scrambling to her feet. 

"Logan and Cary didn't send anyone," I snap, dropping my arms, watching the police car pull to the side of the road. I take a deep breath and begin toward them, shoulders held back, walking tall. 

"What's happened here?" asks the first police officer, as he climbs out of the driver's seat. 

"We ran off the road," I answer, calmly and point down the embankment. 

The police officer whistles, following my finger with his gaze. "You girls all right?" he asks. 

"Yes." 

"Yes," Dawn echoes, stepping up beside me. 

The police officer nods. "I'm Officer Calloway," he informs us. "This is my partner, Officer Mitchum." Officer Calloway jerks his head back toward the other officer, leaning back against the police car. "Have you girls been drinking?" Officer Calloway asks and flicks on a flashlight, shining it in my face. 

I move my hand in front of my face, as if to bat away the light. "No," I answer, irritably. "Must you shine that in my eyes?" 

Officer Calloway regards me, blankly then moves the light to Dawn's face. "And you?" he asks. 

"No, I haven't been drinking," she replies, her agitation matching mine. 

"Who was driving?" asks Officer Calloway. 

"I was." 

"Step over here, please," he orders, waving the flashlight toward the police car. "Go down and check out the car, Greg." 

I watch Officer Calloway follow Dawn to the police cruiser, where he aims his flashlight along a white line near the side of the road. He keeps the flashlight trained on the line as Dawn begins to walk it, her Birkenstocks dusty and feet sandy in the light. She walks the line straight with her hands held out to the side, as Emily, Julie, and I watch from a distance. 

"All right," says Officer Calloway, satisfied with her performance. He shines his flashlight in my face again. "Your turn." 

"I wasn't driving." 

"Your turn." 

I sigh, heavily and step up to the line. I don't hold out my arms. I walk very quickly. Julie and Emily go after me. Julie holds her arms out like Dawn, taking wide and slow steps, making a big show of it. When it's Emily's turn, she is unable to walk completely straight. She stumbles over her feet. After the second stumble, Officer Calloway leads her to the police cruiser and Emily disappears into the driver's seat. When she reappears, her cheeks are fire red and stained with fresh tears. 

"What were you doing?" I ask her when she rejoins our cluster. 

Emily crosses her arms and looks down. "Breathalyzer," she answers, quietly. 

"This is ridiculous," Julie growls. 

I nod and glance over at the police officers, huddled together beside the open driver's door of the police cruiser. Officer Mitchum's talking on the radio. Neither look at us. 

"They're just jerking us around," I say, placing my hands on my hips. I remember what my parents said to me once, _Police only make things worse..._ My parents were right. 

Officer Calloway approaches once again, but keeps his flashlight down this time. "Can you girls tell me," he begins, stopping before us, "why you're driving around in a stolen car?" 

My stomach drops. 

No one breathes. 

"Stolen?" Dawn squeaks. 

"Stolen." 

No one speaks. 

Not for a very long time. 

"It's my stepfather's car," Dawn finally says, faintly. "He loaned it to me. He said I could drive it." 

"What's your stepfather's name?" 

"Richard Spier." 

"Well, he reported the car as stolen. I guess he isn't aware that he loaned it to you. Back to the car, please. All of you. We're going to the station." 

Dawn, Emily, Julie, and I squish into the back seat of the police cruiser. There isn't enough room for my legs and I sit with them scrunched up into my lap. Julie leans forward and looks over at me to mouth, _Stolen?_ I shake my head. Mary Anne's dad is a jerk. Between us, Dawn and Emily sit white-faced, all color and emotion drained from them. Officer Calloway drives us even farther from Howard Township. We're closer to Shelbyville and it makes no sense whatsoever for us to be all the way out here. I don't protest or question though. I lean my head against the glass, watch the passing darkness, and think of very little. I'm tired. 

The police station sits in the middle of nowhere, like every other place we've encountered tonight. It's silent and deserted. Officer Calloway and Officer Mitchum talk back and forth about mug shots and finger printing as we walk up the front steps, but instead, lead us into an empty office, where Officer Calloway slams a telephone down in front of Dawn. "Get your parents out here," he barks and then strides out of the room with Officer Mitchum behind him. 

When the door shuts, Julie turns to Dawn. "Did you steal the car?" she asks. She isn't accusatory. Like us all, she sounds and looks very, very tired. 

"Of course she didn't," I snap, although I don't mean to. 

"Of course I didn't," Dawn echoes. 

Julie shrugs. "Well, we don't really know you," she points out and reaches for the telephone. "Mind if I call first? My parents are going to be pissed. It's going to take over an hour to get out here! Where the hell are we anyway?" 

"I wouldn't know," Dawn replies and sits down at the desk. 

"When you talk to your mom," Emily says in a hushed tone. She hasn't spoken the entire drive. "Will you ask her to tell my parents for me? I can't call them." Emily doesn't look at us. She looks at the wall behind me. 

"Sure," Julie says, easily, dialing her number. She covers the receiver while the phone rings. "I bet my mom's asleep. She's going to be pissed...Hello, Mom? It's Julie. Are you awake?...Okay, well, first of all, I want you to know that I'm all right...Are you done?...Well, I'm all right, but the car and the tree it hit are not..." 

I roll my eyes and turn away. Julie would consider that the best way to break the news to her mom. 

When Julie hangs up the receiver, she turns to Emily and says, "Mom's going over to your house. Don't worry." 

Emily purses her lips and looks down at her feet. 

Dawn calls home next. She speaks in a hushed tone, turned away from us. We don't hear a word, only the low murmur of her voice. When she hangs up, her cheeks have pinkened, but she has nothing to share. Silently, she holds the phone out to me. She watches me expectantly until I reach out and take the receiver. I'd rather not call my parents. I'd rather ride home with the Bernsteins and the Sterns and pretend none of this ever happened. 

But I take the phone anyway. 

The telephone rings and rings until the answering machine picks up. I don't speak, but breathe in a message. I hang up. I dial again. I wait as the telephone rings once more, over and over, piercing in my ear. Where are my parents? The machine clicks on again and this time I speak. "Hello, this is Grace. Are you home? Please pick up..." and I wait and wait, exhaling into the receiver, onto the machine. Finally, I hang up. 

"Your parents aren't home?" Dawn asks me. "It's really late." 

My hand is still on the receiver, covering it with tight fingers. "Sometimes they stay in the city," I answer in a flat tone that requires no response. I lift the receiver and tap out the number to Mom's office. I listen to it ring and click over to her voicemail. I leave a message and then dial Dad's number, too. I leave the same message for him. I pretend that Dawn and Julie and Emily aren't watching me. I pretend that they're not all thinking the same thing. 

Officer Mitchum comes for us. "Done with the phone?" he asks. He's slightly less unpleasant than Officer Calloway. 

"Our parents are coming," Dawn answers and then casts a glance in my direction. 

Officer Mitchum catches it. "Is something wrong?" he asks, looking straight at me. 

I cross my arms and with an effort am unbothered. "My parents aren't home," I inform him, matter-of-fact and honest. "They commute to the city for work. They aren't home yet." 

Officer Mitchum sighs. 

"Grace can ride back to Stoneybrook with us," Emily tells him. "My parents are coming." 

Her words cut into me, deep and sharp. A swift slice. _My parents are coming._ Her parents are coming. Well, I don't want anything from her parents. "I'll wait for my own parents, thanks," I say, icily. 

Emily glances at me and gives nothing away. 

"You will," Officer Mitchum agrees, "because we're not releasing you to the custody of anyone but a legal guardian." 

I regard him with a stare like the ice of my voice. Custody? Legal guardian? This is far more ridiculous than I originally thought. The police are much too bored out here. Getting their thrills from tormenting and inconveniencing teenage girls. They could be a little more concerned about us. We did drive off the road into a damn tree after all. 

"Can my grandmother pick me up?" I ask. 

"No," Officer Mitchum replies without any consideration. He holds open the door. "Into the waiting room, please," he instructs. 

We file out and sit down in the cold, hard molded-plastic chairs. Julie and Emily sit together, side by side, shoulders touching, grasping hands. Dawn and I sit across from them with an empty seat between us, where we set our purses. 

We wait. 

And wait. 

No one speaks to us. Officer Calloway and Officer Mitchum walk by every so often. They've lost interest in us and pay us no attention. There's another officer at the front desk, a woman, and she isn't interested in us either. So, we sit, in silence, staring at each other. As time wears on, Emily begins wringing her hands in the lap of her tan shorts, wringing them and glancing at the clock. Every five seconds, she glances up at the clock. Glances at it like perhaps it's magically sprung a great deal forward in time, or perhaps, a great deal backward. Less frequently, she holds her breath and stares at the door. 

Twice, I get up to call my parents. They aren't at the house. They aren't at the office. They aren't anywhere where they know I'm missing. 

Sharon Spier is the first to arrive. The police station door swings open and she charges through, heels echoing in the lobby. She lets out a strangled cry when she sees Dawn. She's wearing a red knit glove on one hand, an oven mitt on the other. 

"Sweetheart!" she exclaims, striding toward Dawn and I, arms outstretched. 

Dawn stands and hesitates, only for a split second, and then enters her mother's arms, enveloped within their hold. They hug a long time. When Sharon releases her, Dawn's crying. 

"I'm so sorry, Mom," she mumbles, tears rushing from her eyes. "I'm so sorry about Richard's car." 

"Who cares about the car? Richie can buy a new car. I am so mad at that man, I could spit nails! Reporting the car stolen! Just because you missed his ten o' clock curfew! Are the rest of you girls okay?" 

We nod. 

"Good. Now who am I supposed to talk to about getting you out of here?" Sharon demands, glancing around. She spots Officer Calloway and heads straight for him, Dawn trailing after her. The three of them disappear into Officer Calloway's office, shutting the door behind them. The blinds are open, but Sharon and Dawn keep their backs to us and Officer Calloway's face reveals nothing. Fifteen minutes later, Sharon comes out of the office with her arm around Dawn. They say goodbye and leave us. 

Emily resumes her hand wringing. 

We hear Mrs. Bernstein before we see her. Her voices rises from the outside, high and panicked, and then the front door bangs open and she appears, hurrying into the waiting room. "Emily Elaine!" she screeches, not sounding quite like herself, flying across the room with Mr. Bernstein and Mrs. Stern on her heels. Until this moment, it never occurred to me that Mrs. Bernstein and Mrs. Stern normally wear any make-up, but apparently they must because obviously they aren't now. They don't look like themselves. They look older. Worn out and exhausted. Mrs. Bernstein's black hair is disheveled and Mrs. Stern's short blonde hair sticks up on one side. Underneath her coat, Mrs. Stern's wearing a pair of pink-striped pajamas. 

"Emily Elaine!" Mrs. Bernstein shrieks again and her voice echoes back at us. "Are you okay?" 

Emily bursts into new tears. 

I have to wonder if she planned that. 

Mrs. Bernstein wraps Emily in her arms and then kisses her cheeks. "Are you okay?" she asks again, high and shrill. "What are you doing out here?" 

Emily only cries. 

Mrs. Bernstein smoothes back Emily's hair, the chestnut curls now limp and lifeless. She kisses Emily's forehead. The whole display is sickening. I could vomit. And Mrs. Bernstein would probably vomit if she realized she showed up in public in a navy and white floral-print skirt and a lavender sweater. But somehow, I notice, in her panic, she managed to put on her lipstick. Ruby red. And now it stains Emily's cheeks like her tears. 

Julie and Mrs. Stern aren't hugging. They're standing close and talking in normal, casual tones, talking like it's any other conversation on any other night. I am grateful that Mrs. Stern can maintain her composure in the midst of Mrs. Bernstein's hysteria. 

"Could you have chosen a more inconvenient location to get stranded?" Mrs. Stern asks Julie. 

"Possibly," Julie replies. 

"I have to work in the morning, you know." 

"I'm sorry." 

"Can I yell at you tomorrow? I'm too tired now." 

"What are you doing out here?" Mrs. Bernstein asks for the hundredth time. Obviously, even in her state of panic she's not willing to allow the question to remain unanswered. 

"We were going to see Michael," Emily lies, staring down at her mother's feet. 

"You're supposed to be at Argo's." 

"Is that r-r-r-really important right n-now, M-m-m-marian?" Mr. Bernstein asks from where he stands off to the side. I'd almost forgotten his presence. He's been staring at the floor as usual, arms folded across his chest, but he glances up momentarily at Mrs. Bernstein before lowering his gaze again. 

Mrs. Bernstein watches him, even after he's removed his eyes from hers. "Of course, Bernard," she says, slowly and kisses Emily's right cheek again. I've lost count of all the kisses. "I'm just so thankful you're okay," she tells Emily. She turns her head toward Julie. "And you're okay, too?" she asks and Julie nods and Mrs. Bernstein moves from Emily to Julie and kisses Julie's left temple. "Oh, I am so glad," she says and then moves her gaze to me. "And how are you, Miss Blume?" she asks. Luckily, she doesn't move to kiss me. 

"Fine," I say, tightly. 

"Where are your parents? Aren't they coming?" 

"Of course my parents are coming." 

"She just hasn't found them yet," Julie announces. 

Julie has a big mouth. 

"What is that supposed to mean?" Mrs. Bernstein demands. 

"They're in the city," I reply. 

"A lot of good they're doing you there," Mrs. Bernstein informs me. "It's all right. You'll just come back with us. Now why hasn't anyone come out to speak to us? Who is in charge here? Bernard?" 

"I'm not in charge." 

Mrs. Bernstein stares at him. "That's not what I - " She stops and waves her hand at him, turning away. "It would be nice if _someone_ would have the courtesy to come out and speak to us," she says, loudly, and begins toward Officer Calloway's office, where we can see him sitting at his desk, drinking coffee. "Jeanie, come," she commands. 

Mrs. Stern sighs and follows behind her. "I have to work in the morning, you know," she points out. 

"We didn't steal that car!" Julie calls after them. 

Mrs. Stern pauses momentarily, in mid-step, and then continues behind Mrs. Bernstein, who has just marched straight into the office without knocking. 

Mr. Bernstein stays with us. He takes off his gray cardigan sweater and holds it out for Emily. She slips her arms inside and Mr. Bernstein pulls the front tight around her. He kisses the top of her head and speaks to her much too quietly for anyone else to hear. Maybe not even Emily hears him. But he speaks, looking down at her, and she nods. When they sit down, Emily loops her arm through her father's and rests her head on his shoulder. He speaks to her again in that quiet voice that's meant for no one else. 

In Officer Calloway's office, Mrs. Bernstein's shouting. Shouting and shaking her finger at him. Back and forth. Back and forth. Swinging like a pendulum. 

"Your mother's out of control," I inform Emily. 

Emily raises her left shoulder, half-heartedly. 

"Your wife's out of control," I inform Mr. Bernstein. 

Mr. Bernstein shifts his eyes to me, his mouth slightly open, like he wants to speak, but may not. He watches me a moment, gathering his words and his nerve, and finally says, "I don't know." 

He doesn't know _what_? 

And then he looks down again and smiles at his knees. 

Mrs. Bernstein blows out of the office, appearing even angrier than when she went in. "Sharon Spier just left you all here?" she bellows. "And what is this dumbness about legal guardians?" 

"I told you already," Officer Calloway protests behind her, "we will only release the girls to their legal guardians. It's the law." Officer Calloway puffs out his chest and surveys the room. 

"It's stupid," Mrs. Bernstein snaps. "You're just being difficult." 

"You're the one being difficult, ma'am." 

"I'm not difficult. I'm right." 

Officer Calloway furrows his brow and opens his mouth to respond, but Mrs. Stern steps between them and holds out her arms. "Please. _Stop._ Can we leave now? Honestly, you can't possibly mean for Grace to sit here all night, waiting for her parents to surface?" 

I won't blush. I won't be embarrassed. 

I look away. 

"You have inconvenienced us enough," Mrs. Bernstein tells Officer Calloway. "This entire thing is ridiculous. You didn't need to drag the girls all the way out here. The police station in Howard Township would have been much more logical. You're just wasting our time. Maybe you have nothing better to do in the middle of the night, but I do. Sleeping would be at the top of the list." 

"Marian..." Mrs. Stern says, wearily. 

I stand up, straight and suddenly, startling them all. "I'm going to telephone my parents again. They're probably home. You can all leave." I stride briskly from the room before anyone can answer. I shut myself into the empty room where the telephone waits. No one answers at my house, but when I call Mom's office, on the third ring, she picks up. 

"Where have you been?" I demand. 

"Grace?" 

"Of course it's me!" I snap. Who else would it be? Who else telephones her office in the dead of night? "Why haven't you been answering the phone? I've been calling! Didn't you listen to your messages? What are you doing still at the office?" 

Mom's silent for a drawn out moment. 

"Hal and I went to get something to eat," she finally answers. "And no, I haven't listened to my messages. We just came in. Didn't you get my message? I left it on your answering machine. We're staying over in New York. We're completely buried and - " 

"No, I didn't get your message!" I interrupt her. "Because I'm sitting in a police station outside Shelbyville!" 

"You're what?" Mom cries. 

"I'm sitting in a police station outside Shelbyville because two morons ran us off the road and we drove into a damn tree and I've been calling you for two hours and you haven't been answering the phone!" 

"I...I...You drove into a _tree_? Are you all right? Oh, God." 

"Of course I'm not all right! The police won't let me leave unless you come to get me. The Bernsteins and Mrs. Stern are here, but I can't leave with them. And Mrs. Bernstein's in the waiting room, throwing some kind of tantrum over it! You have to come get me!" 

"Grace, it'll take us at least two hours to get there!" 

Two hours! I bite down on my lip. I bite down and fight everything back, everything that's threatening to break free. 

"Give me a few minutes," Mom says. "We'll figure something out. What station are you at?" 

"It's on Back Garden Road." 

"I don't even know where that _is_. Let me talk to your father and then I'll call and talk to someone at the station. You aren't waiting there for two more hours. Don't worry about that." 

"Okay." 

Mom pauses. "I'm glad you weren't hurt," she says. "And I'm sorry that I didn't answer earlier. Everything will be fine." 

Mom hangs up. 

That's it. 

I'm not sure what more I expected. 

I sit down and wait a moment, gathering myself. I take several deep breaths. I don't know if I am angry or relieved. I take another breath and decide to consider that later. I stand and stride out the door and back down the hall to the waiting room. The Bernsteins and the Sterns are seated in a row, facing me. Mrs. Stern's asleep, her head resting against Julie's. Julie has her eyes closed, but opens the right slightly when I enter the room. The Bernsteins watch me, too. Emily from her father's shoulder, head partially turned in my direction. Mr. Bernstein glances at me, briefly, for as long as he can stand the eye contact, then breaks it to look at Mrs. Bernstein seated on his other side with her purse resting in her lap. 

"My parents are coming for me," I announce, standing tall before them, hands firmly on my hips. I tilt my chin upward. "I spoke to my mother. She's calling Officer Calloway." 

"We'll wait," Mrs. Bernstein says. 

"You don't need to wait. They're coming." 

"Where are they?" Mrs. Stern croaks without opening her eyes. She isn't asleep after all. 

I hesitate. "New York." 

Mrs. Bernstein snorts. 

I stand straighter still, tossing my shoulders back. I tower over them in their chairs. I look down on them. They are not so wonderful just because they're here. 

"I can wait alone," I insist, cold and stern. 

"I could stay and wait with you," Mrs. Bernstein says. 

"I don't need a baby-sitter," I snap and my voice comes out flash frozen, brittle and iced-over. 

Emily and Julie startle, heads moving back at my tone. Mrs. Bernstein raises her thick black eyebrows. She needs to pluck them. Badly. Maybe she should worry more about herself and her massive eyebrows and less about other people's business. 

Mrs. Bernstein glances over at Mr. Bernstein, who lifts one shoulder and bobs his head from side to side like he doesn't have an opinion at all. Mrs. Bernstein purses her lips until they are thin vanishing lines. "Fine," she finally says. "We'll go home now, As long as your parents are really coming." 

The Bernsteins and the Sterns rise to their feet. Emily and Julie come over to me. "I hope you don't have to wait long," Emily says. She's still wearing her father's cardigan. It swallows her tiny frame. 

"I'll wait with you, if you want," Julie offers. 

I shake my head. 

"Are you sure?" 

As much as I'd like someone to stay with me, as long as that person isn't Mrs. Bernstein, I shake my head again. 

I watch Emily and Julie leave with their parents. Emily walks between the Bernsteins, each with an arm around her - Mr. Bernstein's across her shoulders, Mrs. Bernstein holding her waist. Julie and Mrs. Stern follow after, standing close, but not touching. The door shuts behind them and I am left alone. I sit down again, by myself, in the center of the station. It's quiet except for the clicking of the keys as the female officer types on her computer. No one speaks to me. No one tells me anything. If my mother has called, if she's raised a fuss to rival Mrs. Bernstein's, I am not told of it. I am told nothing and wait alone. 

It's an hour and a half before anyone comes for me. 

It isn't my mother or father who appears in the doorway. It is Gran. She breezes through the doorway, long-strided, hands in the pockets of her white linen slacks. There is no expression on her face and unlike Emily and Julie's mothers, she does not look tired or mussed from sleep. She looks as she always does, graceful and aloof. 

"Grace, dear," she says as she approaches, "are you all right?" 

I forget how many times I've asked and answered that question tonight. 

I nod and struggle to stand, wobbling to my feet. My legs have grown weary of waiting and fallen asleep and now prickle beneath the skin, little pins digging into me. "What are you doing here?" I ask Gran. "Mom called you?" And there is hope in my voice, a tiny seed wanting to bloom. 

"No. Harold called me. He asked if I would come get you. You drove your car into a tree?" 

I hide my disappointment. Of course Dad called her. He always does the calling. "No. Dawn drove her stepdad's car into a tree. I was just along for the ride. The police said I couldn't call you." 

"Why ever not? It doesn't matter. Harold asked me to come and now I'm here. Are you ready? Let's go." 

I don't think it's that simple and I'm right. Officer Calloway appears out of his office and approaches, grim-faced and glaring. "I didn't realize," he says, staring hard at me, "that you are a very important person." 

"I am," I agree. 

"Your mother is less than charming. This is your grandmother? We're making allowances for you because you're just that special." 

"Are we done?" Gran asks, ignoring his rudeness. "It's a long drive back to Stoneybrook. I'd like to go now." 

"Actually, ma'am, we have some things to discuss. As I told your daughter on the phone, the girls have been less than truthful about the accident and their purpose for being out so far from civilization. Earlier this evening, we - " 

"I'm not interested," Gran cuts in. "Let's go, Grace." Gran turns and walks away from Officer Calloway without a second look or consideration. He doesn't protest. He's had his excitement for the night and is, likely, pleased to be rid of the last of us. 

"Thank you for coming for me," I tell Gran as I fasten my seat belt. 

"Of course," Gran replies, backing the Mercedes out of the small, narrow parking lot. "It will be a slow drive, Grace, dear. I'm not the best night driver." 

"I understand," I say and wait for her to question me, to ask exactly what happened, to ask for the truth no one has fully spoken tonight. 

Gran has no questions. 

She turns the radio way down and makes small talk. She shows no interest in the accident. She speaks of her annoyance at her dog instead. I don't understand and I do. There are so many things unspoken, all these things in our lives, and Gran's adding this onto the list. _Grace and Dawn drive into a tree_ filed beneath whatever is in her attic, filed above Mom's epilepsy and drinking. More secrets and Gran doesn't even ask to know them. 

The lights are on at my house when Gran pulls up to the curb. "Here you are," Gran announces. "I'd walk you to the door, but I'm not allowed to step out of the car." 

It never ends. 

"Thank you for coming for me," I say again. 

The front door of my house opens and my parents step through the lighted archway onto the stoop. They're still in their work clothes, Dad in a suit and tie, Mom in a tweed skirt and matching jacket. Dad begins down the walk toward Gran's Mercedes while Mom waits on the stoop, the light shining on her red hair, glowing all around her. She places her hands on her hips and watches. 

Gran rolls down my window. "Hello, Harold," she greets Dad. 

Dad bends far down to reach the window and peers in. "Thank you for picking her up, Allison," Dad replies. "Grace, how are you feeling? Are you hurt?" 

"No. I'm okay. Just tired," I answer and Dad nods and opens my door for me. Before stepping out, I lean over to Gran, wrap my arms loosely around her neck and whisper, "Thank you for coming." I am glad Mom is watching. 

"Good night, Allison and thank you again," Dad says before shutting the door. He places the tips of his fingers on my back and pushes me forward, gently, toward the house and then drops his touch. He doesn't comfort me. He walks with me and that's all. 

Mom starts down the walk to meet us halfway. "Are you all right?" she asks, briskly, striding to me. 

I don't know where the anger comes from, where it has been hiding, but suddenly, it boils to the surface, rising from me, and flowing over. "Yes, I'm all right. All right for someone who sat all night in a police station, alone because her friends' parents came for them in a reasonable amount of time!" 

My parents pause, standing still and silent in the middle of the walk. I pass them, leaving them behind the way they leave me. 

"We didn't know you intended to drive off the road into a tree," Mom replies, testily, hurrying after me. 

"I'm thrilled that you can joke about it. It was so hysterical as it happened!" 

"Why are you so mad at me?" Mom demands, following me into the living room. 

I spin around on my way to the stairs. "Because you weren't here! Everyone else's parents came for them! And I was there all alone, sitting in that damn waiting room with the Bernsteins and Mrs. Stern giving me pitying looks. Mrs. Bernstein wanted to stay there with me and if she wasn't so awful, I probably would have let her!" 

"Well, no wonder you're so cranky. That is a terrible prospect, being trapped in a little room with Marian the librarian." 

"You never take me seriously," I snap and pound up the stairs. 

"What's wrong with her?" Dad's bewildered voice floats after me. 

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" Mom retorts. 

Exactly. 

In my bedroom, the alarm clock's beeping, quick and shrill, a continuous tone. I kick it off the night stand. 


	23. Chapter 23

I stay in bed until noon. I wake up several times before then, roll over, shield my eyes from the streaming sunlight, and return to sleep. When I wake at noon, I decide it's finally time to get out of bed. I go straight into my bathroom and when I look in the mirror, realize that I forgot to remove my make up before falling into bed. Mascara and eyeliner streak down onto my cheeks and a faint outline of lipstick remains present around the rim of my lips. I wash my face now, splashing warm water on my face and then spread cool gel across my skin with a cotton ball. The foundation and blush come off easily, dirtying the stark white cotton. Afterward, I brush my teeth and hair. I look much better than I feel. Wrung out and empty, withering on the vine, ready to drop. 

On the stairs, I hear the fast tickety-tapping of fingers striking the keys on a keyboard. I pause, my hand resting on the banister. I can't tell who it is solely from the typing. It could be Mom. It could be Dad. It could be both of them, holed up in their office as usual, only in the daylight instead of the nighttime. A change of pace. 

I continue downstairs, unhurriedly, steeling myself for what may come. I'm tired still, drained from the long night, and uncertain where my anger lies. Mom comes into view as I cross through the living room, coming toward the office. Mom's hunched over her desk, focused on her computer, fingers flying over the keys, her purple plastic-framed glasses slipping down to the tip of her nose. She doesn't notice me in the doorway. She doesn't notice me at all. 

"What are you doing home?" 

Mom startles, head snapping up. "Grace," she breathes in a gasp, covering her left breast with a hand. "You scared me." Mom pushes back from her desk and stands, coming around to meet me. She looks so much less like my mother, the glasses perched on the end of her nose, the gold and plum chain swinging down beside her face. She's wearing jeans and a heather-gray scoop-neck shirt. 

"Why aren't you at the office?" 

Mom halts a few feet from me, arms hanging at her sides, not reaching for me. "I'm not going in. I brought all my work home with me. I can do it from here. Hal had to go in, though, for a very important meeting. He's sorry and promised to try to come home early." 

Try, My parents always _try._ Try to make it, try to come, try to be enough. Try often falls short. Falls short like my parents. 

"How are you feeling?" Mom asks and takes a step nearer. She moves close to me, closer than she usually stands. Mom's hand raises and touches my shoulder. Her touch hurts, aches, and I jump back, angling my shoulder away from her, away from her touch. "What is it?" Mom asks with a hint of alarm. "What's wrong?" she asks and tugs aside the sleeve of my t-shirt, pulling it down to reveal my bare shoulder. The pale, creamy skin is bruised and discolored there, dark and violent purple, striped from my shoulder down across my chest. 

"The seat belt," I explain. 

"Oh," Mom replies, staring at my bruise. "Come into the kitchen then and we'll put ice on it." 

"Ice? Are you sure?" 

"Yes, I'm sure. That's what my mother always did," Mom answers and doesn't look at me, but slips around me, heading toward the kitchen. 

I can't reply because there isn't a reply for that. Of course Gran would know. She lived a lifetime of bruises, an entire marriage of bruises. I follow Mom into the kitchen and sit down at the table while Mom fills a dishtowel with ice cubes from the freezer. "Here you are, Grace," Mom says, holding the dishtowel out to me. 

"Thanks," I mumble and pull down my t-shirt and press the dishtowel onto the bruise. 

"Are you hungry. Grace?" Mom asks me, opening the freezer again. "Marta went to the supermarket this morning, so you have a lot of choices. Would you like meatloaf? Rigatoni? Country-fried steak?" 

I shake my head. "I don't want a frozen dinner," I reply. 

"I'll order out then. Pizza or Chinese?" 

"I'm not hungry." 

Mom turns away from the refrigerator and watches me, expressionless. Then she smiles. It's fake. "All right then. That's fine," she says, bright and false. She whirls around again, throwing open the refrigerator door and pulls out a can of pineapple soda. She sets it down in front of me. "You must be thirsty, at least," she says with more of that counterfeit brightness and cheer. 

I am, so I pop open the can and take a long sip. "Thanks," I mutter and lean back in my chair, holding the dishtowel in one hand, the soda can in the other. 

"Just let me know when you are hungry," Mom says and smiles. She is so lovely when she smiles. Her beauty is not false like all else. It is genuine, something real within the mask she hides herself behind. Someday, I will look the same. "I want you to know, Grace," Mom says, the smile vanishing from her face as she slides onto the chair across from me, "that your father and I are so apologetic that we missed your calls last night and that we did not come home sooner. Hal and I, we would never purposely ignore your calls. We had no idea, of course, that you would need us." 

"Of course you didn't know," I agree and look away, sipping from my soda. 

"We promise that we'll try - " 

"I know you'll try," I interrupt. 

Mom pauses to watch me. I wonder if she knows, if she realizes. If she sees past her own words and promises into the disappointments that lie beneath, waiting to bob to the surface. The telephone rings, sharp in the silence, and Mom tears her eyes from me and springs from her chair. She leans back against the counter as she picks up the receiver. "This is Fay Blume," she answers, lightly, and her face changes quickly in the pause that follows, altering to exasperation as she rolls her eyes. "Hello, Marian," she says, flatly and sighs. "Yes, I am home...Yes, I suppose you are surprised...Yes, this is rather a bad time...No, no. Grace is perfectly all right. Just a little bruised and upset. How is Emily?...Yes, I imagine you are planning to file a complaint. I'd be astounded if you weren't...I don't know. We might. Hal and I haven't discussed it...Certainly, I'll let you know...You've spoken to Richard Spier? Why?" 

My head snaps up and around. The dishtowel slips from my hand, sending the ice cubes tumbling down, striking and shattering on the tile floor. I stare at Mom's slender back as she listens to Mrs. Bernstein. I hold my breath. Mom and I have barely spoken. I've told her less than nothing about the accident. I know the subject was approaching and Mom's questions were preparing to come, but I had not decided what to say, what to hold back, and what to reveal. I figured I would gloss over Dawn like she was never there. Mom disapproves of her, for whatever reason. 

"Stolen?" Mom exclaims into the receiver and pivots on her heel to face me. "What party?" 

I stare back at her, silently cursing Emily and her conscience. I can't believe it. Emily _told_ her mother. Emily will probably be locked in her bedroom for the rest of the summer. We'll never see her again. Perhaps, she'll wave to us from her window as we drive passed, so we won't forget what she looks like. 

"No, I've not heard about this party," Mom tells Mrs. Bernstein and narrows her eyes slightly at me. "Grace only just woke up. We haven't really...Oh, really?...Is that so?...Yes, that is drastic. He overreacted...No, I'm sure you said it all...I should go now, Marian...I'm feeling fine...No, I haven't experienced that side effect. I really do have to go now. Grace just fainted dead away. I think she may have brain damaged. Bye." 

Mom hangs up the phone. 

I wait for her to speak. 

"I promised Hal that I'd call when you woke up. I'd like to talk to you when I return." Mom strides out of the kitchen. 

Like Emily, Mrs. Bernstein needs to learn to keep her mouth shut. 

I rock forward in my chair again. I listen, closely, but can't hear what my mother is telling my father on the phone. She's too far away and her voice doesn't reach. I don't have any thoughts to collect. When Mom returns a few minutes later, she pours herself a cup of coffee. She adds in creamer before coming back over to the table, stirring the coffee with a spoon as she approaches. She slides back into her seat, taps the spoon on the rim of the coffee cup, and lays it to rest on the table top. She sips the coffee. 

"I've never known such a meddling, nosy woman," Mom tells me, curling her fingers tight around the coffee cup. Between the spaces of her fingers, tiny white daisies peek out, painted on the sun yellow ceramic. "Marian's a real bitch. I guess it's very difficult to be so damn perfect." Mom sips her coffee again and watches me from over the cup. "Marian wanted to know how you're feeling. She said that Emily's fine, but shaken and tired. Marian also said that Richard Spier reported his car as stolen before you drove it into a tree." 

"Didn't Officer Calloway tell you that on the phone?" 

"He didn't have an opportunity to say very much," Mom answers. "What were you doing so far outside Howard Township, Grace? Were you going to a party? I don't appreciate learning such things from Marian Bernstein." 

I sit a moment, weighing my options, weighing which truths to tell. "We were going to a party," I finally admit. "I didn't want to go and we weren't going to stay long. Emily and Julie were curious, that's all." 

Mom nods and lifts her cup to her lips. When she lowers it again, she says, "All right. Please don't make such a foolish choice again. You placed yourself in a very precarious situation. It's a dangerous world outside Stoneybrook. It sickens me to think what may have happened had the police not found you." 

I watch Mom, as she sets her cup on the table. She's lowered her glasses from her face and they swing slightly on their chain against her breasts, lightly jostled by the movement of Mom's arm. I watch Mom and wonder if that could possibly be it. If that could possibly be all she has to say. "Is that all?" I ask Mom. 

"Yes," Mom replies. "You know what you did was wrong. You won't do it again." She rises from her chair and I think that perhaps she truly is done with me. She'll leave the kitchen, go upstairs, dress for the office, and disappear. Through with me. But instead, she returns to the coffee maker and pours a second cup. Her back is to me when she says, "As much as I hate agreeing with Marian the librarian, I must admit, Richard Spier is the most uptight, ridiculous man in all of Southern Connecticut. What was he attempting to accomplish by registering that car as stolen? Certainly, he felt quite proud of himself last night, but it's doubtful that he still feels the same way. I can only imagine the tongue lashing he received from Marian. I remember such phone calls quite well." Mom stirs in more creamer, her back still to me. "I am stunned, however, that he'd pull such a stunt with Mary Anne." 

I turn around in my chair. "What do you mean?" I ask, puzzled. 

"I mean that I can't believe he'd do that to Mary Anne. She must have been hysterical." 

And it comes to me, the realization washing over, seeping in, that Mom doesn't know anything about Dawn. Whatever Mrs. Bernstein said on the phone, she left out Dawn's name, or else Mom wasn't fully listening and heard only snatches, little bits that she wished to hear. In Mom's mind, Mary Anne drove Mr. Spier's car into a tree, not Dawn. In Mom's mind, Dawn was nowhere near the accident, was nowhere because I promised not to see her. 

And I don't correct her. 

"There was a lot of hysteria," I reply and it isn't really a lie. 

"You must have been scared." 

I shrug. "Not really." 

"You're like me. I always keep my head, too," Mom says and leaves her chair again. She can't stay put. She walks behind me and I feel her pause there, hovering at my back. Lightly, Mom's hands touch my shoulders. A light fluttering touch and then they are gone. "You have bad luck with cars," Mom observes and moves away. 

I turn around in my chair. Mom stands in the pantry doorway, arms stretched upward, drumming on the door frame. "I know I do," I agree and watch her. I take a moment before saying, "I thought of that, too. I thought about that time you drove us into the telephone pole - " 

"That was a long time ago," Mom interrupts without turning around. 

And I don't skip a beat. I continue on. "And I thought about that night three summers ago when - " 

"Why are you bringing that up?" Mom interrupts me again. She whirls around and crosses back to me, closing the distance between us. "That isn't important right now." Of course it isn't important now. It's never been important. "Water under the bridge," Mom says and slides down the sleeve of my t-shirt. She touches my bruise. "That is a nasty bruise. I'll make you another ice pack. That'll take care of it." 

That'll take care of it. Like it never happened. Cover it up, watch it fade away, and forget. Never remember again. 

Upstairs, my telephone rings. I don't move to answer. I let it go on and on, ringing and ringing until the machine clicks on. It's probably Julie or Emily. Maybe Dawn. Sometimes I forget about her. I guess everyone does. I wonder how she is now. I wonder if she's regained her voice. 

The telephone rings in the kitchen. Mom hands me another dishtowel packed with ice and says, "Hold it on there longer this time," and then reaches across the counter for the phone. "This is Fay Blume," she chirps into the receiver and as before, her face drains of its previous expression. She is a blank, unreadable slate. "Yes, she's right here," Mom says, tonelessly and holds the receiver out to me. "It's your grandmother," she tells me in the same toneless voice. 

She could have been nicer. She could have been pleasant. She could have been so many things, but instead, as usual, she had to be flat and rude. It is always the same. Never changing. 

"Hello, Gran," I say, cradling the receiver against my unbruised shoulder. 

"Your mother's home," Gran replies. She doesn't offer a greeting. 

"Yes, she is." 

"She shouldn't shock me like that. I'm an old woman. Surprises like that could kill me. What is she doing home? Isn't she aware that it's a Thursday? Or does the entire lingerie industry screech to a halt if she doesn't show up?" Gran asks and doesn't wait for a reply. She rolls ahead, passed her bitter words. "How are you feeling today, dear?" 

"I feel fine. My shoulder is bruised from the seat belt though." 

"A bruise isn't bad. It could be worse. Put ice on it. But otherwise you feel fine? That's lucky. I would have called earlier, but knew you'd sleep late. And I would have driven over to check on you, but of course, I'm not allowed to get out of my car." 

I sigh. "I know you're not allowed out of your car." 

Mom crosses her arms and rolls her eyes. 

"Gran? Can I call you back later?" I ask, suddenly tired, tired of all this. Pettiness and bickering, little jabs coming through from all sides. 

"Certainly. I'll be here all day," Gran answers. "I'm glad you're okay. Don't forget to put ice on that bruise." 

"I won't. I'll talk to you later, Gran." 

"Why is she always calling here?" Mom demands when I hang up the phone. 

"Because she's my grandmother," I reply, crossly. "Didn't your grandmother ever call you?" 

"No." 

"I feel very sorry for you then," I say and it comes out a bit meanly. I'm unsure if I intended the meanness. But maybe Mom deserves it, intentional or not. "Besides, she doesn't call here all the time. She calls during the day when you're not even here, so what does it matter? Are you going to forbid her to call now, too?" 

"Oh, don't be silly," Mom retorts, keeping her arms folded across her chest. "But if I did, you know she'd comply. That's just like her. She loves to irk me. She has to be as difficult as possible because she has nothing else going on in her life. Nothing else but digging around in that damn garden of hers. She has three other grandchildren. Why doesn't she bother them for a change?" 

"She isn't bothering me." 

"She's bothering me. And no offense, but I don't understand why she's so interested in you. She was never interested in _me_. I suppose you're lucky. She never would have left her house in the middle of the night to pick me up anywhere. She refused to come to Manhattan when I was in labor with you. I'm sure if it had been Corinne, she would have had a completely different attitude. I bet Corinne's over there all the time." 

"No. I never see her," I answer and the answer itself surprises me. I'd never much considered it. "And I _do_ take offense, thank you very much." 

"You're too sensitive." 

"Well, I'm going to take my too sensitive-self upstairs to shower," I snap, striding away from her. 

"I don't understand why you're so mad at me!" Mom calls out and I bite my tongue to keep from shouting back at her, shouting things I may really mean, but would still regret. So, I keep them to myself, for myself, and run up the stairs, away from my mother, away from the problem. Run and avoid. That's what we do best. 

Mom doesn't come after me. She lets me go. It isn't a surprise. The house falls silent around me, the only sound the shower spray pelting against the tile. I strip out of my pajamas and step into the spray, scalding hot against my chilled skin. I stand still, letting it cover me, soak me, engulf me whole. It washes off last night, the dirt and grime that clings to me, soiling my outsides. It's washed away and when I come out of the shower, wrapping a thick white towel around me, I am fresh and renewed. But on the inside, I feel the same. Emptied of everything but a floating anger, floating beneath the surface, newly buoyant and wanting free. 

I dress with care as always. Brush out my hair until it's dry and shiny, gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Apply my make up with a steady hand. Tourmaline green eyeshadow and dark mauve lipstick. In my bedroom, dressed in black bikini panties and a matching strapless bra, I dig through my dresser drawers until I find the tank top I desire. Its green matches the eyeshadow, thick tourmaline and gray stripes. It gathers beneath my breasts and fans out. I bought it last summer and realize only now that I've never worn it. I pair it with dark, straight-legged jeans and black heeled sandals. I pin up my hair and catch a glance of my full reflection in the mirror. A slice of the bruise is visible across my chest. A slice of violent purple imperfection, a slice of an indication that I am not all that is presented. There is more and it is hidden. 

Mom's drinking in her office when I come downstairs. Drinking, drinking, drinking. Always drinking. I wonder if she drinks at work. I wonder how people don't know. I storm past the office, purposeful and disregarding. I storm past and refuse to offer her a second look. I don't care that she stayed home for me. I will leave her like she always leaves me. 

"Where are you going?" Mom demands, following after me. 

In the kitchen, I spin around. Spin slick on the toes of my sandals. I face my mother. She hasn't left her drink behind. It's there, in her hand, held in front of her. Always, always there. 

"I'm going out." 

"Where are you going?" Mom asks again. 

"Why should I tell you? You can go half-crazy trying to track me down!" 

"Why are you so mad at me?" Mom demands. "I haven't done anything!" 

"You're right. You haven't," I snap and spin around again, flying for the door, purse dangling after me, swinging from my shoulder. I stomp into the garage, empty of everything but my Corvette. Dad's taken the Lexus. There is no car for my mother because she's too afraid to drive herself. She's afraid and can't even admit it. 

Mom stands in the doorway with her drink and watches me back out of the garage. She lets me go without protest. She will always let me go without protest. She never wanted me. 


	24. Chapter 24

Julie isn't home. I stand on her porch, knocking and pressing the doorbell, but no one comes. Holly, the Stern's dog, barks in the backyard in response to the noise I make at the door. She's still barking when I duck back into my Corvette. I sit a moment, locked inside the car, pondering my next move. Julie was my sure thing, the person I knew I could see without worry. She won't be angry about last night. She won't be in trouble. She won't want to discuss every detail of the evening. Julie will want to sit on her tire swing and eat rocky road ice cream from the carton. She'll want to talk about her neighbors and the kids at school. She won't want to talk about us or herself. 

That is Julie. 

I consider all my options. Emily. She blabbed to her mother. She's probably grounded for eternity. Dawn. Likely, Mr. Spier has strangled her with the crushed bumper of his Cavalier. Mary Anne and Stacey. I don't want to explain to them. Mari. I don't want to explain to her either. 

I drive to Gran's. 

Gran's in the front yard, crouched in the flower bed with Penelope chasing around her, yipping and taking little leaps into the air. Gran ignores her, head bent down in concentration, but she raises her gaze as my Corvette turns up the drive. She pushes herself up and dusts off the seat of her moss green-colored slacks. She's halfway to me by the time I step out of the car. 

"Grace!" she calls out with a wafting laugh, shielding her eyes even though her sunglasses perch on her face. "I didn't think you'd be coming over today!" 

I shrug and slam the car door. 

"What's that on your chest?" Gran asks, pushing aside part of my shirt for a better look at my bruise. "The seat belt did that? It looks terrible. Is it sore?" 

"Not really." 

"Did you put ice on it?" 

"Yes," I answer, nudging her hand gently away. "Mom made me an ice pack at home." 

"And where is my dear daughter now? Rushed back to the office already? I'm not surprised," Gran says and slips an arm around my waist. "Have you eaten? Come inside and I'll make lunch for us. Are those new earrings? They're lovely, dear." 

I touch my right earlobe as we step onto the porch. I feel the outline of the heart-shaped garnet. I forgot to remove the earrings last night and somehow overlooked them again today. The garnet earrings my mother gave me. The earrings my father gave her when I was born. I wondered before what their purpose had been. I think now that they were not for congratulations. They were something else. They were _I'm sorry._ They were _I'm sorry I did this to you._

"Mom gave them to me," I say, softly, guardedly. I don't give anything else away. I wish I could say more. I wish I could tell Gran about the worries I have about my mother, the worries I have about how much she ever wanted me. And I wish I could tell Gran about my feelings last night and this morning, the things I said to Mom and the things I did not say. There's so much I wish I could reveal and it all must remain inside, concealed within me. I always have to choose between Mom and Gran. I always have to keep my silence. 

"Oh, yes, of course. The infamous garnet earrings. From your father to your mother to you. How very special," Gran says and opens the front door. "Penelope! In! Don't worry, Grace dear. The garnets don't clash with your hair." 

"I wasn't really worried about that," I say with a slight scowl that Gran misses. "But thanks. Dad gave them to Mom when I was born." 

"I know. You've told me," Gran replies and drops her arm from my waist to push through the kitchen door. She brushes her hands together. "I just noticed that my hands are dirty. I hope I didn't get anything on your clothes." She crosses to the sink and runs her hands under the faucet, washing the dirt down the sink. She dries her hands on a dishtowel, turning to me as she does, smiling. "What would you like for lunch? I had salmon last night and there's some leftover." 

"Ugh," I groan, scrunching my face. "You know that I hate fish." 

"Of course. I forgot. Would you like a ham sandwich then? Brigitta bought far too much ham at the supermarket." 

"That's fine, Gran," I say, sliding onto one of the kitchen chairs and folding my arms on the table. "How long do you think before this bruise goes away?" I ask Gran's back. She is the one to ask. It's awful to think, but she is. 

"Oh, I'm not sure," Gran replies, breezily, keeping her back to me. "Do you want mustard?" 

"No thanks. I'd like mayonnaise though. Not too much." 

"I have light mayonnaise. We must watch our figures," Gran says and turns her head, briefly, to smile at me. 

I smile back, small and slight. I watch Gran's back as she spreads everything out on the counter. I watch her hand twist off the lid to the mayonnaise jar. I remember how I watched my mother in the same way earlier today. Gran and Mom, it occurs to me, appear so similar from the back. Gran isn't as tall and her hair is a different shade and longer, but there are the same hips, softly curved, and the same slim shoulders and slender arms. Comfortable resemblances. 

"Have you ever had a bruise like this?" I ask Gran. 

"No." 

She's turned away still and cannot see the look on my face, the look that would tell her that I know she's lying. "No?" I repeat. 

"No. I don't believe I've ever been in a car accident." 

Gran still hasn't asked about last night's accident. She hasn't seemed interested at all. I wait now for her to question me. It's the perfect time. And instead, Gran says nothing. She asks nothing of me. She dips a knife into the mayonnaise jar and spreads a tiny glob onto a slice of sourdough wheat bread. Then she presses pickles into the thin mayonnaise layer. She arranges them neatly. She doesn't ask questions. 

I have a question for her. 

"Have you seen Aunt Corinne lately?" 

"Corinne?" Gran answers, turning from the counter, holding a plate in each hand. She crosses to me with the sandwiches. "Corinne was here a couple weeks ago, I guess. Cullen sent her over to borrow the leaf blower. She still hasn't brought it back. Would you like a glass of pink lemonade? I mixed it up just this morning." 

"Sure. Thanks," I reply, watching Gran return to the refrigerator for the lemonade pitcher. She pours the pale pink liquid into two transparent yellow glasses. "What time did you get up this morning? Weren't you tired?" 

"Six o' clock, the same as always. I like starting my day early. And no, I wasn't tired. I'm used to early mornings. Are you worried about being a bother last night? Don't worry about that. It wasn't much of an inconvenience. I was awake when Harold called. Here's your lemonade. How is your sandwich?" 

"Great," I say and quickly take my first bite. I chew and swallow just as quickly, barely tasting the lunch my grandmother made for me. I set the sandwich down again. "It's been a long time since I've seen Aunt Corinne. You should invite her over sometime. We could all play tennis or something." 

"Corinne doesn't care much for tennis anymore," Gran says, sitting down and picking up her own sandwich. "She's very busy these days with the Red Cross and Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts and of course, that Catholic Women's League or whatever it's called. I still can't believe she married a Catholic. I try not to think about it." Gran sighs and bites into her sandwich. When she swallows, she says, "Of course, your mother married a Catholic, too. But that wasn't a surprise. She always did look for ways to irritate me." 

"She says the same about you," I tell Gran. "And Dad's a lapsed Catholic." 

"Hm," Gran says and continues eating. If she gives either statement a second of consideration, she doesn't indicate such. 

The telephone rings. 

"If it's Mom, tell her I'm not here," I blurt out without thinking. 

"Fay wouldn't call here," Gran says, pushing away from the table. The telephone hangs on the wall beside the oven and Gran crosses to it and lifts the receiver. "Hello? Allison McCracken speaking," she says, airily and in the pause that follows turns her mouth down at the corners. "One moment please," she tells the caller and then holds the receiver out to me. "It's one of your friends. What happens when they start calling and you're not here? I'm not a secretary." 

I turn my mouth down like Gran's as I rise from my chair. Honestly, it's only the second phone call in as many weeks that I've received here. "Thank you," I say, tightly, taking the phone from Gran's outstretched hand. I press the receiver to my ear. "Hello?" 

"This is Emily." 

"Hello," I say again. I don't sound friendly or welcoming. "I'm a little upset with you - " 

"I figured," Emily cuts me off. "Can we discuss it later? I'm doing you a favor." 

"Right now? How so?" I ask, suspiciously. 

"Your mom's here. She's looking for you. Did you run away from home or something?" 

My eyebrows shoot so far upward they must disappear into my hairline. Mom is at the _Bernsteins_? But in my surprise, anger seeps through, anger that Emily is calling to tell me this, anger that she and her parents are sitting in their impeccably organized, bleach-scented home, witnessing a crack splitting between my mother and I. "No, I didn't run away from home," I snap, hotly. "I'm visiting my grandmother. Did your mother make you call over here? Are you going to tattle on me?" 

"I'm not a tattletale!" Emily protests, her voice rising. It lowers then to a hiss. "And no, my mother didn't make me call you. I have a mind of my own, you know. She doesn't even know I'm calling. She's downstairs with your mom. I was calling because I was trying to be _nice._ I thought you'd like to know that your mom's looking for you, especially if you're running away from her. So, you're very welcome!" 

Emily slams down the phone. 

Emily's never done that. It startles me and underneath my quick boiling anger, it stings. I stare a moment at the receiver, stare at it like perhaps Emily will return to the line and all our anger will have evaporated. But the dial tone appears and my upset lingers. I grip the receiver tight as I hang it on the wall, wondering why my temper slipped and who it was truly meant for. The lines blur and I am uncertain. It could be for Mom or Emily or her parents. It could be for Gran. Or anyone and everyone. All the world could be the deserved recipient of my anger. 

I return to the table, wordlessly, and attempt to reign myself in. Pull it all together. Push the lid on snugly and shuttle it away. I slide into the chair and pick up my sandwich. Across the table, Gran takes a final bite of hers, smearing a dot of mayonnaise in the corner of her mouth. She raises a napkin, dabs at her lips, and then sips her lemonade. She smiles at me as she lowers the glass, that blank and guarded smile that never reaches her eyes. The smile that is not a smile. It's something else and she never tells me what. 

"Aren't you going to ask me why?" 

Gran sets down the remainder of her sandwich and raises her napkin to wipe her mouth once more. "Ask what?" she inquires in a voice that matches her smile. Blank. Guarded. 

"Why I don't want to speak to Mom." 

Gran takes a drink of lemonade and then sets her hands in her lap. "If you want me to know, you'll let me know," Gran answers. 

"Why can't you ask?" 

"Why do I have to ask?" 

I shove away from the table, knocking it, setting it off balance. Our glasses and plates rattle, tipping side to side. "Never mind," I snap. I'm snapping at everyone today. Everyone may deserve it. Gran does. I've just decided. She could ask about the accident. She could ask about my mother. She could ask about so many things. She could ask if she cared. She could bother for a few moments, bother about something of importance, something outside the narrow scope of her own life. 

Maybe Mom's been right all along. 

"I'm going home," I announce, icily, and spin on the heels of my sandals, holding my head high as I breeze away. 

"Oh, you're just being silly!" Gran calls after me. 

But she doesn't follow. 

She lets me go. 

Everyone always lets me go. 

I give Gran a fair chance. I wait in my car, holding the steering wheel tight beneath my knuckles. I wait for Gran to appear in the doorway. She doesn't. Nor does she appear at the window. She stays seated in the kitchen or floats off elsewhere, somewhere I can't see her, somewhere I am not. I throw the car into reverse and shoot out of the driveway and down Bertrand, away from the Bainbridge Estates. I head for my house and halfway there, realize it's not someplace I can be. I don't want to see my mother. She may be there, waiting for me. Or she may not be. And that would be even worse. 

Two weeks ago, I never would have imagined myself standing on Mary Anne's front porch, knocking not for Mary Anne, but for Dawn. 

"Hey," Dawn says, hoarsely, when she opens the door. 

"Hello," I reply. "What's wrong with your voice?" 

Dawn touches her throat. "Big fight with Mom and Richard," she answers and then steps back from the door, holding it open for me. "Come on in." 

I hesitate before stepping inside. "Anyone else home?" I ask Dawn. 

Dawn shakes her head. "Mom and Richard both went to work after lunch. Mom would have preferred to hover and smother, but she had an important presentation this afternoon. Richard, he can never wait to get out of this house. Usually, he's running from Mom, but this time, he ran from me. Want something to drink?" 

"No thanks." 

"Let's go up to my room then," Dawn suggests and begins up the stairs, hopping over Tigger crouched on a middle step. "Your parents finally came for you?" Dawn asks, falling back onto her bed. She leans backward and crosses her ankles, lounging on her elbows. 

I cringe inwardly at her words, but don't give myself away. I settle onto her desk chair and cross my own long legs, resting my folded hands primly on one knee. "Gran came for me. My parents were waiting when I came home though. They were detained in New York. Their jobs are so demanding," I say and pause before adding, "My mother stayed home today. She's there right now. She's taking a nap." 

"She left a message on our machine about an hour ago. She was looking for you." 

"I forgot to leave a note," I lie without thinking, without missing a beat. I smile. "I'll call her in a while. So, Richard's running from you now? Aren't you the one who's usually running?" 

Dawn's cheeks flush slightly, but she shrugs. "I think you misunderstand my actions. I won't hold it against you. Richard's embarrassed, I guess. He thought he'd teach me a lesson. I'd come home and he'd tell me about the police report, scare me straight or something. I don't know what he was thinking. I don't know what goes through his head. I guess he didn't really expect the cops to catch up with me. He didn't expect anything to really happen. He feels bad, I guess, now that he's done being furious. And then Emily's mother called this morning. She really let him have it. I could hear her from across the kitchen. Man, that woman's voice is shrill." 

I chuckle, knowingly. 

"No one else's parents have called. I mean, yours haven't and Julie's haven't. Not to chew Richard out or anything." 

I chuckle again. "Oh, I assure you, Mrs. Stern was standing right beside Mrs. Bernstein during that conversation. Your stepdad could probably hear her whispering in Mrs. Bernstein's ear. My mother used to complain about that." Dawn really doesn't understand how anything and anyone operates in Stoneybrook. She can't be blamed. She's been away so long. 

Dawn cocks her eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? Well, I think I'll pass on asking Richard about it. I'm going to keep my distance for awhile. Maybe for the whole summer. He's plenty peeved about his car. I think it may be beyond repair. Mom says they'll just buy another one, but Richard thinks I should pay for half. I mean, it is my fault, but..._half_? For a brand new car? My friend Sunny and I are saving to buy a car to share. And I've only saved five hundred dollars so far!" 

"Why don't your parents buy you a car?" I ask. 

"That's your answer to everything." 

"Are you trying to pick a fight?" I ask and my voice is prickly, although underneath, all I feel is resigned and weary. 

"No, no," Dawn protests, pouncing quickly on my tone. "I'm just...well, it's been a rough twenty-four hours, you know. Never mind. Don't take anything I say too seriously. I'm just..." Dawn shrugs and brushes her blonde hair away from her face. It falls back over the shoulder of her rust-colored tank top. "I'm just embarrassed like Richard, I guess." Dawn's cheeks take that soft pink flush again. 

"Because you were stupid last night?" I ask, bluntly. It should be said. If Dawn hasn't realized, she should know. 

"You don't mince words. Thanks," Dawn says and a hint of a smile plays on her lips. "Yeah, I was stupid and I'm sorry. I really can't explain what came over me. I just got caught up in the moment, I guess. I can't really explain it or excuse it. I'm sorry. Things could have been a lot worse. That's what Mom told Richard this morning. Of course, she was using it as an excuse. Justification to let me off the hook. But I'm not. I am sorry." 

I wave my hand. "I'll let it pass," I reply, graciously. 

"You're too kind," Dawn says and pushes up on her elbows. She doesn't speak again right away, but on her face, I can tell there's more. "I'm embarrassed for another reason," she admits. "I really froze up out there. I always think I should be so good in a crisis, but usually...I'm not. When I thought about it on the drive home, it reminded me of this time Claudia and I were stranded on an island with some baby-sitting charges. I froze up out there, too. I was completely useless." Dawn stops again, pausing with that same look of thoughtful expectation etching softly on her face. "We show our true selves in a crisis, don't you think?" she finally asks. 

I have to look away. 

"I don't know," I answer. 

I hope not. 

"I don't know either," Dawn says, quietly. 

Suddenly, I am suffocated. I am running out of air. "I should go," I say, springing to my feet. 

Dawn's startled by the abruptness. She rises to her own feet, watching me, puzzled. "Already? You just got here," she protests. 

"Yes, I know. My mother's looking for me. I should go home. She's so worried about me after what happened last night. I shouldn't keep her wondering." 

"You could just call," Dawn points out. 

I shake my head and start for the door, tripping over Tigger, who has migrated to a rug in the hallway. Dawn sees me out. She stands under the arch of the front door and waves to me. It occurs to me that she's the only person who has asked me to stay today. And I leave her behind. 


	25. Chapter 25

When I reach my house and pull into the garage, the Lexus sits there, waitin in its usual spot. I place a hand on the hood as I step passed and feel its heat. My father has only just arrived home. I slip quietly into the kitchen and immediately am met with the sound of my parents' raised voices. I pause in the kitchen, resting a hand on the back of a chair, and listen. My parents never fight. But there is the sound, angry voices volleying back and forth in the distance. I listen, but don't hear their words. Their anger drowns out their meaning. All there is is noise, heavy and unfamiliar.

I cross through the kitchen and into the living room toward the sound. From the living room, I see my parents, standing in their office, facing off. My father's in a gray suit. He's just arrived home from work. Come home for damage control. Come home to smooth out the edges of my mother and I. Damage control, that's all my parents ever do. At the office and at home. They sweep in when disaster's already struck, sweep in and clear out the mess, half-heartedly, smoothing it over with promises and presents. It keeps for awhile, but never lasts.

My father's back is to me. His hands are on his hips and he raises one hand to slide it back over his balding head. He mostly blocks my mother. But I hear her. She's loud and furious.

"I don't understand why you expect so much out of _me_!" Mom shouts at Dad.

"Because you're her mother!" Dad shouts back.

"That's so sexist, Harold! You're her _father_! That doesn't give you less responsibility! I am sure that plenty of fathers - "

"What do you know about fathers?" Dad demands.

"That's low, Harold!"

"And your mother - "

"Leave her out of it," Mom snaps.

"Maybe if your mother - " Dad continues.

"Oh, shut the hell up, Harold! I can play that game, too. Maybe if _your_ mother and father - "

"What does that have to do with Grace?"

I slink back into the kitchen. I rattle within my skin. Outside the kitchen, my parents blaze on, mad balls of fury hurled at one another. Blazing over me. Deep inside me, an odd feeling creeps, rising, growing stronger. Satisfaction. Finally, I am at the forefront of their minds. Finally, I am noticed. I cannot be ignored.

And the feeling falls, mixing with doubt and realization. It is not such a triumphant after all. It is not out of concern that they battle over me. I am a burden. Like I've been a burden since my beginning. Unwanted and unneeded. A constant interruption. And that's what I am once more. I've interrupted their lives, come crashing through with fierce demands and disappointments. It is their burden to bother with me. And now, they're fighting because of me. Not because they love me. Because neither wants to deal with me.

And that's just how it will forever be.

I leave my house behind with the echo of my parents' angry voices.

Sometimes, I want to disappear.

I'm running out of places to run and so I settle. I press my finger on the doorbell outside Emily's house. I wait without patience. I press the bell again just as Mrs. Bernstein opens the door. There's a cordless telephone pressed to her left ear and she regards me, unsmiling, and waves me inside.

"Well, I didn't know she was going to do it," Mrs. Bernstein says, crabbily, into the phone as I shut the door behind me. "Well, my crystal ball was at the repair shop..._of course_ that's a joke!"

Mrs. Bernstein gives me a second sharp wave coupled with an irritated look and leads me into the living room, where Mr. Bernstein's stretched out on the couch, asleep, glasses still perched on his face, hands folded across the stomach of his gray plaid shirt. Three of the Bernstein's five cats sleep on him, the white one curled around his head, the orange tabby in his lap and the calico draped across his ankles. Mrs. Bernstein's still crabbing on the phone when she points me up the stairs, mouth set in a firm line, finger stabbing through the air. When I'm halfway up the staircase, I look over my shoulder and see her with the phone cradled between her ear and shoulder as she unties Mr. Bernstein's laces and tugs off his shoes.

Emily's bedroom door is shut and I knock hard on its wood, causing the door to vibrate hollowly.

"You can come in," Emily grumbles.

I push open the door and step through to find Emily seated at her desk, hunched over a pile of open books and scattered papers. Does she ever leave that desk? Emily glances up at me with narrowed eyes, a lock of curled hair falling across her face. She flicks it away with her hand. "I knew it was you," she says, tonelessly. "Julie doesn't knock and Stacey and Mary Anne, their knocks are so polite. Your knock is impatient."

"I have a lot of important things to do," I say, peevishly, dropping onto the yellow floral comforter on Emily's bed. "I can't stand around knocking on doors all day."

"Well, I hope you have a good reason for knocking on mine!"

"You hung up on _me_," I point out.

"You were _rude_."

Emily and I stare at each other in a stone cold silence.

Emily is so stubborn.

"Well, I'm certainly not apologizing!" I cry.

"Well, neither am I!"

I cross my legs and fold my hands over a knee. I stare. Emily purses her lips, tight and prim. She stares back.

"Would you like to see my new curtains?" Emily finally asks, hopping out of her chair.

I won.

But I don't gloat about it.

"Sure," I say, airily, rising from the bed and following Emily to the window. The long saffron yellow curtains are pulled open and tied back with matching sashes. I rub the ribbed material between my fingers. "Nice," I tell Emily.

"My mother made them for me," she reminds me.

"Hm," I say and drop the curtain. I walk away and return to the bed, where I fall back again, recrossing my legs. I tug on my right earlobe. "Have I shown you the earrings my mother gave me?" I ask Emily.

Emily shakes her head and comes to stand beside me. She touches a small, slender thumb to my earlobe, brushing over the heart-shaped stone. "Very pretty," she says, admiringly. Emily draws back her hand and straightens her t-shirt, a white and emerald green-striped v-neck. She sits down again at her desk, picking a strand of hair off her khaki shorts.

"Your mom's arguing with someone on the phone," I inform her.

Emily places her hands on her knees, palm-side down. "Oh, I know," she replies with a queer expression on her face. "She made the mistake of telling Nana Schneider about last night. Nana and Papa Schneider have been calling all day with new thoughts on how this is all my parents' fault. They're trying to decide if mostly my mother or my father should shoulder the blame. They'll probably settle on my father. They say he'll ruin me just like he ruined my mother." Emily turns away, giving her attention to her desk, and begins shuffling papers. "I wish she'd just stop answering the phone."

"The phone comes off the hook for a reason," I say. It's clear, all of a sudden, where Mrs. Bernstein got her penchant for making irate phone calls.

"Dad says he preferred the days when Nana and Papa Schneider didn't have a telephone," Emily says.

"I guess they're making up for lost time," I reply and Emily chuckles, lightly, her back to me. I guess we're finished with being irritated with each other. But I'd still like to know. "Why did you tell your mother about the party?" I demand as politely as possible.

Emily turns around. "I didn't tell my mother," she argues. "I told my father." As if that isn't the same thing. "And I had no choice. This morning, Mrs. Blumberg telephoned my mother, wanting help with some costume she's sewing for Erica's brother. I didn't _mean_ to eavesdrop, but I happened to be standing outside the kitchen door and overheard them talking about Erica and Claudia getting caught at a party last night. A party outside Howard Township." Emily raises her eyebrows at me. "The same party we were following that ignoramus Logan Bruno to. My mother isn't stupid, Grace. I knew she was figuring out that I lied to her. So, I found my father and confessed to him."

"And now you're chained to your desk again."

"I am not!" Emily retorts. "I confessed on my own accord, so my parents are much less angry since I displayed decent character. They're disappointed though." Emily pauses and turns back to her desk again. "They're disappointed in me a lot lately," she says and closes the dictionary that sits open on her desk. When she redirects her attention to me, her expression has gone unreadable. A signature Emily expression. Unreadable, like her parents. "I've been working on my _Jane Eyre_ paper all day. I finished the book this morning and finally get Julie's joke about Mrs. Rochester. Do you know where Julie is? Julie went to the movies!" Emily throws her arms into the air and makes a soft grunting noise in her throat. "The movies! Really! I bet Mrs. Stern won't even remember to yell at her tonight. My parents refused to go into the pharmacy today. Mr. Malkowski's there now."

I wish I'd known that. I need a refill on my allergy medication. "And so...you're going to sit at your desk all day, writing about Jane Ayer and then your parents won't be upset anymore?" I ask Emily. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. No wonder Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein argue all the time and Emily glues herself into her desk chair. They keep ignoring the fact that they're all _insane._

"_Jane Eyre_," Emily corrects, as if I care or will remember. "And no, they'll be upset for a while. A few days, I suppose. My mother gets over things quickly though. She has a short fuse, but she'll eventually get over it. And my father..." Emily waves her hand. "He prefers to be quietly furious, as Julie would say." Emily sighs and drums her palms on her knees. "They'll get over it," she repeats and purses her lips. She thinks. "At least I hope so because Julie and I leave for journalism camp soon and what if they tell me I can't _go_?"

I roll my eyes. This would be all about _journalism camp._ How dull. "I can't imagine your parents would dream of denying you the wondrous experience of a geeky newspaper retreat. That would be criminal!"

"I know!" Emily agrees, bouncing upward slightly, ignoring the obvious sarcasm in my tone. She tips backward in her chair. "So, your mom was here earlier."

"Nice segue."

"Thanks. Did you have a fight? She wouldn't tell my parents. She just said that she'd checked at Stacey's and Mari's and you weren't there. She waited here for awhile. It was strange because I don't recall your mother ever being inside my house before. That's kind of odd, isn't it? Considering how long we've all lived in Stoneybrook. But of course, our mothers have never exactly been friends..." Emily's voice wanders off into thoughts unspoken. She purses her lips once more. I wonder if she realizes she does that. I wonder if she realizes how much it makes her look like her mother.

"My mother and I don't fight," I tell Emily. I flick my wrist, dismissively, and roll my eyes. "We had a disagreement. That's all."

"But that's the same thing," Emily replies.

"All right. We had a discussion then."

Emily's lips purse ever tighter and she knows I have her. She's in no position to argue semantics.

Emily tries again. "What was the disagreement about?" she asks.

I shrug. I don't really remember anymore. I know why I am _angry_, but whatever set me off has faded from memory. It wasn't so important. Not important like all the things I know and suspect. All the things that remain unspoken and hidden from me.

"Is your mom mad about last night? Did you get in trouble?"

"No."

Emily is relentless.

"Is that what it was about then? That she _wasn't_ mad?"

I narrow my eyes. Emily's chipping away at me. I never should have come here. "Well, that would be stupid," I growl. "Why would I _want_ to get in trouble?" I demand.

"Because it would mean she cares," Emily replies.

"Are you saying my mother doesn't care about me?" I snap. "Thanks a lot!"

"Oh, you're putting words in my mouth!" Emily huffs.

"Well, you're putting words into mine!" I retort.

"I just want to know what's bothering you!"

"Nothing's bothering me!"

There's a sharp rap on the bedroom door and Mrs. Bernstein comes in, hand tight around the doorknob. "What is all this shouting about?" she demands, grouchily. There are dark bags under her eyes, magnified by the enormity of her gold-framed glasses.

Emily and I don't answer. Instead, we fold our arms across our chests.

"You're behaving like children," Mrs. Bernstein informs us. She shifts her gaze to me. "Your mother is looking for you. Have you been home? You shouldn't worry her like that. I don't know what's gotten into you girls, acting so - "

"Yes, I've been home," I interrupt.

Mrs. Bernstein's ruby red lips become two thin, painted lines. She turns away from me. "You woke your father," she tells Emily with a disapproving look. "And he's decided that he wants salmon for dinner." Mrs. Bernstein pulls the door shut without another word.

I roll my eyes. "Emily, there is no way that in that short span of time we woke your father and your mother managed to come all the way upstairs to tell us about it."

"I know," Emily says. "She probably woke him herself. And I think the salmon is part of my punishment." She sighs. "Would you like to stay for dinner?"

"No."

"You're a lot like Julie."

"Because the thought of fish makes me want to vomit?"

"No."

"I don't know what you're talking about then," I say.

"It's okay. I'm a lot like Julie, too," Emily says and slides open a desk drawer. She pulls out a cassette tape and leans forward, extending the tape to me. "Uncle Malcolm gave this to me. It's some new artist. She sounds sort of like Corrie Lalique. I already loaned it to Julie. Do you want to borrow it?"

I reach forward and take the tape from her hand. "Thanks," I say and slip it inside my purse without a glance at the case. Maybe I am like Julie. Maybe I am like Emily, too. Julie, Emily, and I, we keep our cards close, pressed tight to our chests, guarded and secure. Often, I wonder what goes on inside Emily's head, all the thoughts that swirl around but remain unspoken. She is tough, sometimes, impenetrable. I never give Julie much consideration in that regard. Julie is Julie. But maybe there is more and we are all alike.

Sometimes, I am struck by the oddity of sitting in Emily Bernstein's bedroom, sitting here with her and calling her my friend. Sometimes it strikes me and I remember her when we were little. I remember her and remember myself. Emily was bizarre, tiny with thick glasses and pigtails, and I wasn't very nice. I don't recall a time in my life when I was ever very nice. And sometimes, when I look at Emily and think of these things, what sticks out in my mind the most, the memory that blazes at the forefront, is the mornings I would drive to school, sitting in the front seat of my nanny, Catherine's car. Every morning, we turned down Kimball and drove passed Emily and her parents, each standing on one side of her, each holding her hand. And then, in the afternoon, one of her parents would wait at the school entrance. Mrs. Bernstein with her arms crossed, Mr. Bernstein staring at the ground. Always, always, always there.

My parents told me that I was lucky because I got to ride in Catherine's car.

"Are you okay?" Emily asks.

"Excuse me?"

"You had a peculiar look on your face. Just now. It's gone though."

"I'm fine."

"I don't think you are."

I smile. I reveal my teeth, straight and white. It's a smile that lights up my face, but does not reach my eyes. A well-trained, well-practiced smile, everything about it right, except that it isn't real. I would tell Emily the truth. I would like to say it once, aloud, speak it for someone else's ears. _My parents never wanted me. They don't want me still._ How could Emily ever understand? Her parents wanted her, always wanted her, want her to this day. They have never considered life without her, considered it in any way that was not tinged with despair.

"I'm fine," I repeat through my smile. I stand, raising my purse strap to my shoulder. "I should go now."

"I'll walk you out," Emily offers and leads me out of her room and down the hall. In the living room, Mr. Bernstein's gone from the couch and only the white cat remains, sprawled out on its back, arms reached over its head. "Sassafras," Emily cooes, lovingly, as we pass by.

Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein are in the formal living room, arguing. Emily and I discover them when we enter the foyer. Mr. Bernstein's seated on the love seat, appearing red-faced and helpless, the muscles in his neck tightening. He isn't wearing his shoes. Mrs. Bernstein stands before him, waving her arms and ranting, that shrill voice climbing.

Emily pretends not to notice.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow," she chirps, then closes the front door.

I return home because there's nothing else for me anywhere else. There isn't much for me at home either. But I have to go there, eventually, because it is my home. I pull into the garage and park beside the Lexus. It feels like a do-over from earlier in the day. Maybe this time I'll get it right. Maybe this time things will work out.

I don't have much hope.

Dad's in the kitchen when I come in. He's removed his suit jacket and stands at the stove in his starched white shirt and tie, stirring something in a pot. He turns his head when I step through the doorway. "Where have you been?" he asks and there's something unusual in his voice. Something almost...stern.

"Why?" I reply, innocently.

"Where have you been?" Dad repeats.

"At Emily's."

"Your mother went to Emily's. You weren't there."

"I wasn't there before, but I was there just now," I answer and grab a plum out of the fruit bowl. I bite into it.

"She's been looking for you. _We've_ been looking for you. I called Allison's. She didn't answer."

I shrug.

Dad looks irritated. He opens his mouth. He considers his words. "I don't know what's..." and Dad's voice trails off and his expression softens. Whatever firmness he mustered in the last several minutes, whatever harsh words he prepared for me, all have passed. He simply can't do it. "Fay's upstairs," he tells me and turns back to the stove.

I toss my purse into my bedroom before searching out my mother. I hear her in her bedroom, moving around and making noise. I step in through the open doorway and find the full contents of Mom's dresser strewn around the room. Mom's still in jeans and a t-shirt, her hair clipped away from her face.

"What are you doing?" I demand.

Mom looks up from the royal blue silk nightgown she's studying. "Cleaning," Mom replies and tosses the nightgown onto a pile of more silk nightgowns, all lying rumpled and discarded on the floor. "Where have you been all this time?" Mom asks and lifts a wine glass off the dresser. The open bottle sits beside it.

"Various places."

"What the hell kind of answer is that?" Mom demands.

"The only one I'm prepared to give," I snap back, then spin on my heel and charge out of the room. I march into my own bedroom and slam the door behind me.

Mom enters without knocking. She didn't put down the wine glass. It's come, too, dangling from her hand. "I don't understand what's gotten into you," Mom barks at me. "We've always gotten along so well."

We have. And that's quickly changed and I don't know how or when.

"Maybe I'm not the problem," I retort.

"And _I_ am?" Mom replies, shrill like Mrs. Bernstein. She drains her wine glass.

"Maybe you should go pour another drink," I spit at her.

"_What_?" Mom cries and stares at me.

I throw myself onto the bed, face down in the comforter. Lost and hidden.

I hear Mom put the wine glass down. It clinks against a glass shelf of my trophy case. There's a trophy for me to inherit. "We'll do this again," Mom says and leaves the room. The door slams behind her.

I don't even try to understand.

Several minutes pass before there's a knock at the door. "Grace, this is your mother," rings out Mom's voice, calm and clear.

"Enter," I call out, muffled by the comforter.

I listen to the door open and close, quietly, and Mom's running shoes pad across the carpet. Then I feel her weight sink beside me on the bed. "Are you going to look at me?" Mom asks.

I shake my head.

"That's rather childish, don't you think?" Mom asks. "Is this normal?"

I turn my head slightly to speak. "I thought you remembered what it's like to be a teenager," I reply.

"My mother and I didn't fight. She doesn't know how because she's a jellyfish," Mom says and sets a hand on the back of my knee. "But I know that sort of talk upsets you, out of whatever misplaced loyalty you feel toward your grandmother, so I won't elaborate."

When does my mother ever elaborate? "It doesn't matter," I say to Mom. "I'm mad at her."

"At your grandmother?" Mom asks, unable to hide her surprise.

"Yes. Isn't that what you wanted?"

Mom is silent and removes her hand from my leg. "Certainly not," Mom finally answers. "I don't want you to _hate_ your grandmother. I only want you to realize what an awful and self-centered person she is."

I laugh, even though it's not funny. Not really.

"It's best to accept now, that she will always disappoint you," Mom explains, her voice soft and kind. She sounds like someone else's mother. She sounds like she should be saying something else. "Why are you so upset with her? What did she do?"

"She's made of ice," I answer.

"I know," Mom says and I feel her fingers on the nape of my neck. They dance into my hair. "She is incapable of human emotion. Twice, I've seen her ecstatic. I think, perhaps, she became confused and displayed the wrong emotion. She may be a cyborg."

"Maybe."

"She has always been cold. It isn't you. You must realize that. That's the only way I've come through life so well-adjusted. Remember that. It will help."

I open my eyes and stare out at the wall. That doesn't help at all.

Mom's fingers leave my hair. She pats the back of my knee again. "I'm pleased, Grace, that we've gotten this straightened out. I understand now that you weren't mad at _me_. Misplaced anger is something I know very well. You're upset with your grandmother and took it out on me. I forgive you. It's perfectly understandable."

"Thank you for being so understanding," I say, weakly.

"Of course. I'm your mother."

"You are my mother," I agree.

"There's no denying that," Mom chuckles. "You look just like me."

"Yes," I say and the telephone rings before I can take that thought any further. I roll over and pull myself into a sitting position and reach for the phone. "Hello?" I say and my voice sounds tired.

"Grace? This is Stace," chirps a voice on the other end.

"Hi, Stacey."

"Are you still going into the city tomorrow?"

"The city?" I repeat. "Tomorrow?"

"Yeah! I'm going on the one-thirty train. Does that work for you?"

I'd forgotten all about the trip to New York. I glance over at Mom, who's still seated on the edge of my bed. She hasn't mentioned New York since that day on the phone. She may have forgotten, too. "I don't know if I'm still coming to New York," I tell Stacey.

"Why not?" Mom asks, startled.

I cover the receiver with my hand, even though Stacey's talking very fast in my ear. "Am I?" I ask Mom.

"Of course. I need a dress for Saturday night, don't I?"

"Stacey?" I interrupt her chatter. "Never mind. I'm coming. One-thirty is okay with me."

"Great! Mom and I will pick you up. She'll drop us at the station. We are capable of driving ourselves, but my mother's in a smothering mood at the moment. Aren't you, Mom?" Stacey practically screeches in my ear.

"How annoying. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Bye!"

"That's settled then," Mom says when I hang up the phone. She stands and brushes off her jeans, like she's brushing off any remainders of our cross words. Brush away the dust. Sweep it under the rug. Let it gather for another day. "The one-thirty train then? I'll meet you at Grand Central. Don't talk to any strangers on the train and stay close to Stacey. And don't use the bathroom on the train. That's a breeding place for filth and germs. If you absolutely have to go to the bathroom, you should probably go _with_ Stacey. New York is filled with perverts and degenerates and likely, most of them take the train in. And under no circumstance should you - "

But I'm not listening any longer. I'm watching my mother and I across the room, reflected in the floor-length mirror beside the closet door. There we are, side by side, bounced back at ourselves. The same height, the same hair color, the same nose and hands, almost the same person. One day, I may blur into her.

When my mother leaves the room, satisfied that she has fixed the problem, I take the wine glass from the trophy case. I drop it into the wastebasket, but it doesn't shatter.

* * *

**Author's Note: **As I'm sure readers have noticed, updates for _My Mother's Daughter_ have become increasingly infrequent over the last several months. This is a trend that will likely continue. I can make no promises as to how soon I will post the next chapter. It could be days, weeks, even months. I am very busy at the moment with my Real Life and quite honestly, I have gradually lost interest in the BSC and fanfiction. It isn't as enjoyable or rewarding as it once was. Writing has become a chore and I do not feel that at my current level of disinterest I am able to write the story I wish to write. I basically abandonned original fiction when I began writing fanfiction and that is not something I regret. I feel I've grown a lot as a writer thanks to fanfiction and reader feedback. However, I now feel I've hit a wall and am no longer getting out what I am putting in. Writing each chapter is very time-consuming and likely takes much more time, effort, and planning than most people realize. I could make the time if I really wanted to, but frankly, I don't. I wish I felt differently and am sad that I do not. 

This is not an "I'm leaving!" note. I intend to finish _MMD_...eventually. I could update next week. Or it could be two months from now. I, honestly, don't know. It depends on when inspiration, motivation, and time line up. I am sorry to my faithful reviewers and my f-list, who I know enjoy the story. I wish I had more interest and thank you for your support and encouragement.

-Celica


	26. Chapter 26

Mrs. McGill's station wagon pulls into my driveway at five after one on Friday. I'm waiting by the foyer window, peeking through a slit of space in the curtains. Mrs. McGill taps the horn and I come through the front door, turning the lock behind me, pulling the door closed. Stacey smiles and waves from the passenger seat and instinctively, I return her smile and wave. I pick up my pace, so that I jog the last several steps, reaching and jerking open the door to the back seat. 

"Hey, Grace," Stacey greets me, turning around in her seat. New black and white-striped sunglasses perch on her face. 

"Hi," I reply, pulling on my seatbelt. "Hello, Mrs. McGill. Thanks for the ride." 

Mrs. McGill looks at me over her shoulder. She smiles and looks just like Stacey. "Not a problem," she says, cheerfully. "I'm happy to know Stacey will have someone with her on the train." 

"Like I haven't taken the train a million times before," Stacey adds, now facing forward. There isn't a smile in her voice. 

"Oh, well," says Mrs. McGill and throws the station wagon into reverse. She overshoots and backs over the curb, leaving a tire imprint on the edge of our lawn. 

"My parents won't notice," I assure her. 

"You sure you should be driving?" Stacey asks and as if in answer, Mrs. McGill runs a stop sign at the corner of Locust and Kimball. 

"So, Grace," Mrs. McGill says, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. "What are your and your mom's plans in the city? What shops are you hitting?" 

"Mom needs a play by play account," Stacey informs me with a lightness she was missing a second ago. "She's in a twelve-step program and desperately in need of a fix." 

Mrs. McGill chuckles. "So dramatic, Stace! I'm curious, that's all. So, where to, Grace? Bloomingdale's? Saks? Or will it be a lot of those tiny little boutiques that Stace and I can only dream of being able to afford to buy a single barrette at?" 

"You have a problem," Stacey observes. 

"I don't know where we're going," I admit. My mother never tells me anything. 

Stacey twists around in her seat. "I hope you brought a notebook along. Mom will expect a full report when you get back," she tells me and I smile, slightly in return, but don't say anything. Stacey waits a moment, then turns back to the front. "I haven't been back to New York in forever," she announces to the car. "I intend to do some serious damage along Fifth Avenue. Don't worry, Mom! I have Dad's credit card!" 

"Is your stepmom taking you shopping?" I ask Stacey. 

Stacey doesn't answer right away. "Oh. Well," she finally says. "Samantha didn't actually say what we'd be doing. She just said to come into New York for the weekend. Usually, though, she and Dad take me out to a ridiculously expensive restaurant and then a Broadway show or museum exhibit. I'm up for whatever. It'll be fun." 

Stacey sounds very much like someone trying to convince herself of something that cannot possibly be true. 

"You'll have a great time, sweetheart," Mrs. McGill insists, brightly, but even to me, it sounds sort of fake. 

Mrs. McGill almost misses the entrance to the train station parking lot, but catches herself, overcorrects and sideswipes a banner advertising Stoneybrook General's Kids Carnival. She does a much better job at parking, easing slow and straight into a prime parking spot near the front doors. 

"You should have so many moving violations on your traffic record," Stacey informs her mother, opening the car door. 

"Officers find me charming," replies Mrs. McGill, climbing out of the car. 

Stacey grumbles something in response, something wholly inaudible. 

At the back of the station wagon, Mrs. McGill has the trunk raised and Stacey's suitcase opened, her hands deep inside, pushing aside clean pairs of shorts and panties. 

"Mom!" Stacey whines, gently shoving her mother away. 

"I just want to make sure you packed your insulin!" Mrs. McGill protests, taking a step back. 

Stacey sneaks a glare at me, then slams the lid down on her suitcase, latching it with a quick flick of her right thumb. She mutters under her breath and swings the suitcase out of the car. I straighten my purse strap on my shoulder, removed from the scene. Stacey can be so melodramatic. 

Despite Stacey's objections, Mrs. McGill follows us into the station, where she waits in line with us at the ticket window. She runs through a short list of items Stacey possibly could have forgotten. While we're waiting on the platform, she slips a package of crackers inside Stacey's open purse. 

"I'll expect you on the three o' clock train on Sunday," Mrs. McGill chirps, happily, at Stacey when our train pulls in at one twenty-seven. She embraces Stacey and holds her tight for a moment. I watch a step away. When she releases Stacey, Mrs. McGill reaches out and touches my arm. "Have an awesome time with your mom," she tells me. 

Stacey groans. "No one says 'awesome' anymore, Mom!" 

Mrs. McGill waves to us as we board the train. "Have fun and be careful!" she calls out. 

Stacey's very lucky because she doesn't have to worry about who she'll be when she grows up. 

I've only ridden the train a handful of times, but Stacey's a self-described expert and leads us through several cars before selecting two empty seats in a mostly deserted car. I sit down across from her and she stores her suitcase underneath the seat beside her. Then we remove our sunglasses and spend some time putting them away in our purses. Stacey takes out a hairbrush and runs it through her thick blonde hair, brushing it all to one side. By the time she finishes, the train's moving and we're on our way to New York. 

"Mary Anne and I found this at Karberger's," Stacey announces when we've fully settled into our seats. She smoothes out her skirt. It's white, black, and pink stripes. She stands then, turning slowly around, shaking her hips as she moves. 

"Lovely," I reply. 

Stacey sits down again. "Yeah, I didn't imagine there'd be anything worth wearing at a Karberger's. I was mostly right. There wasn't anything but this. The top is Mom's." Stacey looks down at the sleeveless pink blouse with its deep neckline. "She didn't want me taking it for the weekend." Stacey rolls her eyes. "What would she possibly need it for?" 

I shrug, then fold my hands in my lap, where they stay still. 

After a moment, Stacey shrugs too. Shrugs the incident out of her mind. "Mary Anne's away for the weekend, too. She went on a business trip with her dad. To Philadelphia." 

It hadn't occurred to me to ask at Mary Anne's whereabouts. 

And I guess Stacey's been gathering her courage because she finally ventures to ask, "Why are you hanging out with Dawn?" 

"I'm not hanging out with Dawn." 

"Yes, you are," Stacey challenges. But somehow it isn't accusatory or reproachful. It's simple. A simple question to be answered. 

"I'm not hanging out with Dawn." 

Stacey goes silent, watching thoughtfully. She taps her nails on her bare knees, her French manicure flashing at me. "Mary Anne's real upset," Stacey tells me. "She thinks you've chosen Dawn over her. All of you - Emily, Julie, you." 

"That's silly." 

Stacey shrugs. "It's what Mary Anne thinks," she says. She won't offer her own opinion. She shields Mary Anne. "She and Dawn don't get along. You know that. They've not gotten along for years. Or, well, they've not had much of a relationship for years. Distance and people changing, I guess. You know Mary Anne's sensitive. She's taking this personally. You and she...well, you've never been the best of friends. Are you doing this on purpose? Are you trying to make her mad?" 

"Not everything's about Mary Anne," I snap. I pause. I breathe in. "No," I say, calmer, nicer. 

Stacey nods. Keeps nodding. 

"Okay," she says. 

"Why is Mary Anne so peeved at Dawn this summer anyway?" I ask. 

Stacey shrugs, absently. "I don't know." 

Maybe she knows and maybe she does not. She will never tell me. It's Mary Anne before me. I am never first in line. With anyone. 

"Dawn wrecked Richard's car, you know," Stacey tells me. 

"Yeah?" I answer and feign surprise, so convincingly, I believe my own deception. 

Stacey nods. "She drove it into a _tree_. You weren't with her? It happened that night, that night you were all headed to that party with Cary and Logan. Were you guys drinking? Were you with her?" 

I shake my head. "No," I say. "We never went to the party." 

Stacey watches me, deciding whether or not to believe. She doesn't realize how much I lie, how much I lie every day. I stretch my arms across the back of the seats. Nonchalant. Stacey nods, deciding to believe. 

"I think Dawn's trouble," she informs me. 

"I think you want her to be," I counter. "She seems pretty innocuous to me." 

Stacey frowns. 

I regard her, expressionless. Nothing more needs to be said. 

"Stace!" a boy's voice suddenly calls out from nowhere. "Hey, is that Stace McGill?" 

Stacey stands up, looking curiously out over the seats. "Rick?" she calls back. 

Rick Chow, one of Stacey's journalism friends, appears beside our seats. He grins. "Hey, Stace!" he greets her, then looks down at me. "Oh, hi, Grace," he says and then looks back behind him, back at someone I can't see. "It is her! I told you that I heard her voice! Hurry up! You can move faster than that, buddy!" 

"You're causing a scene," I tell Rick, grouchily. He may be Stacey's friend, but as far as I'm concerned, he's just another goony high school boy. "And who are you - " 

I halt midsentence as a second boy stops beside our seats. Right beside mine. I scan up to his face, his tousled rust-colored hair and glasses, the frames nearly matching the color of his hair. The silver handle of his cane gleams as he leans on it. 

"Hi, Howie!" Stacey greets him, sunnily. She grins. "You're on your way into the city, too?" 

"We're visiting Rick's sister for the weekend. She lives in some god-forsaken rat-trap out in Brooklyn. It's going to be awesome," Howie explains, enthusiastically. "Where are you going?" he asks and then glances down, noticing me for the first time. "Hi, Grace!" 

I turn my head, staring straight ahead at Stacey. "No one says 'awesome' anymore," I reply, coldly. 

The ice from my words hang in the air, stiff and frozen until Stacey shatters them with her voice. 

"I'll be in Manhattan until Sunday," she says to the boys. "Give me your sister's number. I'll call if my dad ditches out on me and I need entertaining." Stacey laughs like she's kidding. 

Rick writes the number down on his train ticket stub, then scribbles Mr. McGill's number on Howie's bare arm. The three of them giggle over it. I continue staring at Stacey, keeping her as my focus. The others chat for a long time. I don't add anything. 

"Where are you sitting?" Stacey asks them. "Want to sit with us the rest of the ride?" 

Something rises in me, like a fiery panic. 

I pick up my purse and drop it onto the seat nearest Howie. "You can't sit here." 

Stacey stares at me. The boys are quiet. 

"That's all right," Howie says with a nervous laugh. "We'll catch you later. Let's go, Rick." 

"Bye, Stacey," Rick mumbles and doesn't acknowledge me, but I feel his eyes on me, glaring. 

"Bye..." Stacey responds. 

My arms still stretch across the back of the seats. I keep them there, as I tilt my chin slightly upward, as I regard Stacey, blankly, not giving anything away, not giving in to what lurks beneath my surface. Stacey stares at me in stunned disappointment. Something flickers inside me. But I don't set it free. I don't let it rise to release. I keep it all close and buried. 

"I don't understand you sometimes," Stacey tells me, then takes a copy of _Vanity Fair_ from her purse and begins reading, shutting me out. 

Neither do I. 

"I'm going to the restroom," I announce, although Stacey may not be listening. I rise from my seat, lifting my purse onto my left shoulder, and starting toward the back of the train. I walk very briskly. I keep my eyes trained forward, even when I pass Rick and Howie, seated across the aisle from each other. Even when I hear Rick say, "She's a witch and a half. Ignore her," as I step into the restroom. 

Behind the locked door of the cramped restroom, I turn on the faucet, then quickly drop to my knees, banging them hard on flooring. I lean forward over the toilet and retch. My red ponytail swings forward, aiming for the toilet bowl, and I catch it as I retch. Catch it and hold it back. Only my inside can be sullied. I retch and retch but nothing ever comes up. Not any of the things that rot inside me. I sit back, lean back against the door. I breathe. I breathe. 

Once, I did something very, very bad. 

I sit against the door until someone bangs on it. I push up onto my long legs, quickly wash my hands, and step out of the bathroom, tossing my long red ponytail over my shoulder, casting a disdainful look down at the little boy shoving past me. In the distance, I see the top of Stacey's head bent down over her book. I start toward her. 

"Hey, can I talk to you?" a boy's voice inquires as I pass. 

I ignore Howie and keep walking. 

"Hey! I'm talking to you!" he exclaims and suddenly, I'm jerked backward, stunned to discover Howie's broad fingers wrapped tight around my bare forearm. "I want to talk to you!" 

"Let me go," I growl, whipping my head around as he jerks me back. I'm taller than him in my espadrilles. I look down on him. 

Howie lowers his voice. "Tell me what your problem is," he hisses at me. "What did I ever do to you?" 

He stares into my eyes. His are blue, like mine, but do not shine with brilliance. They're watery-blue. Nondescript. And in them I see something I don't want to see. I cannot hold his gaze. 

Instead, I glance down at his cane. The shaft is freshly polished, a shiny ebony stain, leading to the gentle curve of the silver handle. 

"Is this the problem?" he asks, shaking the cane ever so slightly. It wobbles back and forth. Slowly. Slowly so I catch the sway. 

I turn away and he releases my arm from his grip. I stride away, the entire length of the car, without a backward glance. There are worse things Howie Johnson could think of me other than that I am just a bitch. 

Stacey's forgiven me when I reclaim my seat. She puts her book away and offers me a cracker from the package Mrs. McGill slipped into her purse. We spend the remainder of the train ride chatting about anything and everything that does not touch on Mary Anne or Dawn or Howie Johnson. 

We don't see Rick and Howie when we detrain. I slip my arm through Stacey's as we leave the platform, so that I do not lose her within the crush of people. Stacey, the native New Yorker, is not bothered by the crowd, shoving her way through, suitcase tightly gripped in her hand, banging against her right leg. We don't have to look for my mother. I spot her right away when we enter Grand Central. Mom's seated on a bench, back ram-rod straight, purse clutched on her lap. Her eyes are sharp and attentive, suspiciously eyeing every person who passes by. It's hard to believe she ever lived in Manhattan. Even harder to believe she comes here every day. 

"Mrs. Blume!" Stacey shouts, dropping my arm and thrusting hers into the air. 

Mom's head whips around and she rises from the bench, crossing toward us, purse still clutched within both hands. She walks purposely, eyes never straying from Stacey and I. "Girls," she says when she reaches us. "How was the train? You look like you've arrived safe and sound." 

"It was fine, Mrs. Blume," Stacey assures her. "Piece of cake. I've been riding public transport since I learned how to tie my shoes, practically." 

"I certainly hope not!" Mom exclaims in alarm. "This is a nasty city. And this..._place_...is absolutely revolting. I've seen three men urinate, one woman vomit, and a transvestite in a bondage costume since I've arrived. And the true insanity of the city won't greet us until we step outside!" 

"You're funny, Mrs. Blume," Stacey says with a laugh. "Let's grab some cabs. Follow me." Stacey strides away from us and Mom hurries after her, on Stacey's heels, pulling me along by the wrist. On the street, Stacey takes a deep breath and sighs. "Smell that glorious New York air!" she cries, then steps onto the curb, throwing her arm upward, signaling a cab. Instantly, a cab glides to a stop in front of her. "Should I hail one for you, too?" Stacey asks Mom. 

"I'm certainly not allowing you to travel alone in this city!" Mom cries, stepping onto the curb beside Stacey. "We'll drop you off at your father's." Mom opens the door and slides into the cab. 

Stacey wrinkles her nose at me. I shrug and slide in after my mother. Stacey sighs, then tosses her suitcase in the front seat with the driver. Stacey joins Mom and I in the cab. She leans forward to tell the driver, "East Sixty-Fifth Street." When she settles back into her seat, Stacey says to Mom, "I take cabs alone all the time. My parents allow it." 

"Well, I'm not your parent," Mom replies, shortly. She opens her purse and removes two single-packages of wipes. "Use these, girls. This city is filthy." 

"Lady, I run a perfectly clean cab," the driver grouses. 

Mom snorts. 

When we pull up outside Mr. McGill's apartment building, Mom appears torn between walking Stacey to the front door and remaining in the cab with me. "There isn't a doorman," Mom observes, leaning across me as Stacey climbs out of the car. "Who lives in the city without a doorman?" 

"I'll be fine, Mrs. Blume. Have fun shopping. I'll call you when I get back on Sunday, Grace." Stacey slams the car door, then dragging her suitcase behind her, disappears inside her father's building. 

I kind of wish I'd apologized to her. 

But I could never explain. 

"Where to now, lady?" the driver asks. "The meter's running, you know." 

"West Fifty-Fifth," Mom replies, "and cut the attitude." 

I look over at Mom, turning my mouth down. "We're going to the office?" I ask, flatly. 

Mom opens her purse and digs through until coming up with a gold tube of lipstick. "Just for a few minutes," she answers without glancing my way. She uncaps the tube and glides the coral pink color over her lips. She presses them together. "Move over, Grace. There's plenty of room back here now." 

I narrow my eyes and scoot over. "That color looks terrible on you," I tell her with a touch of nastiness. 

The doorman opens the cab door for me when we reach the Fiona Fee headquarters at West 55th Street. Inside, Mom ignores everyone who greets her by name. We ride the elevator to the twenty-sixth floor. I lag behind as Mom leads me to her office. We walk to the end of the hall, to a set of large glass doors, which read _Fay Blume - Chief Financial Officer_ etched into the glass. On the other side of the glass, I see Mom's latest assistance, Shelley-or-Camille, seated at her desk, talking on the phone and filing her nails. 

Mom charges through the doors. Her assistant leaps out of her seat, startled, dropping the phone. It dangles over the edge by its cord. "Mrs. Blume!" she squeaks, arms straight at her sides, standing at attention. "I wasn't expecting you back!" 

Mom snorts and tosses her purse and sunglasses at Shelley-or-Camille. "Get my coffee," she orders and vanishes inside her office. 

"You're drinking coffee?" I ask with a sigh, sinking down onto the couch. 

Mom's busily rifling through a stack of papers on her desk. "What?" she answers, absently, not looking at me. "Shelley! Where are my phone messages!" she barks. 

"I thought we were going shopping," I say, loudly. So loudly she has to hear. 

"We are. Just give me a few minutes. I have to do this one thing. Here. Read this magazine." Mom tosses a magazine at me. 

I catch it and look down at the cover. It isn't even a magazine. It's the Fiona Fee summer catalogue. I frisbee it to the other end of the couch. I tap my foot impatiently against the hardwood floor. Mom shoots me a look, but doesn't say anything. Shelley-or-Camille brings Mom's coffee, which Mom takes without acknowledgment and sets on a file cabinet, never touching it again. I lay back across the couch, digging the bottoms of my espadrilles, covered no doubt in city grime, into the clean upholstery. I fold my hands over the stomach of my green and white polka-dot tank top and close my eyes. 

Mom's "just one thing" takes nearly an hour. 

"Are you ready?" Mom asks me. 

I open my eyes. Mom's changed her lipstick. I swing my legs off the couch and grunt. 

"I'm just so swamped," Mom says while we wait at the elevator. Maybe that's meant as some kind of apology. It's not. It's an excuse. "I can rest easy this weekend knowing that's done." Mom smiles at me as we step into the elevator. "Where should we go first?" 

I shrug. 

"I heard about a new boutique over on Madison. Let's try there," Mom says, pressing the button for the ground floor. "We're looking for a purple dress. I remember." Mom smiles at me again. 

The elevator begins its descent. 

"I saw Howie Johnson on the train," I announce to Mom. 

Mom glances at me. She glances away again. 

"I saw Howie Johnson on the train," I repeat. 

Mom takes a heavy breath. 

"Not now, Grace," she says. 

The elevator doors part and Mom steps through. She's smiling. 


	27. Chapter 27

The new boutique on Madison is called Miss-Miss and a saleswoman greets my mother at the door with a filled champagne flute. She holds one out to me, but I wave her away and my mother laughs, gliding into the shop with her champagne flute held out in front of her. A second saleswoman descends on us immediately, like a vulture sweeping down on its prey. She introduces herself as Monica in a stuffy voice that goes well with her hair, a tight nut-brown bun twisted at the back of her head. She is my mother's age with lines around her eyes and mouth, lines made starker by the shocking redness of her lips. 

"A four," Monica says after appraising my mother from a cool distance. 

My mother doesn't reveal her pleasure at the correct estimation, but I know it's there, turning below her tight-lipped gaze. 

"I need an evening gown," Mom tells the saleswoman, "for a charity fundraiser I'll be attending tomorrow night. I'm looking for something in purple." 

"It doesn't have to be purple," I inform Mom. 

Monica casts an eye on me, then returns her gaze to Mom. "Very well," she says. "I have some that may do over here." Monica strides to a far corner of the store, Mom following after her, sipping her champagne. 

"No, that won't do," Mom's telling Monica when I join them. Monica's holding up a floor-length gown with a full black satin skirt and a white off-shoulder bodice. A scalloped black lace sash circles the middle. "I don't do white. Look at my complexion. And lace...I'm not a teenager or a bridesmaid." 

"I have plenty of others," Monica assures her, easily and unruffled. She returns the dress to the rack. She pulls out another and another and with them, Mom appears mostly satisfied. 

In the dressing room, I hold Mom's second flute of champagne while she strips out of her black and brown tweed suit. She stands before me, then, in a fuchsia bra and panty set and a pair of black stilettos. Mom admires herself in the mirror, hands at her hips, twisting her waist slightly. "Do you think I should have my breasts redone?" she asks me. 

"I don't know." 

"It's been five years since they've been lifted. Are they starting to sag?" Mom asks and when I don't answer, she looks over at me. "You're so surly this afternoon," Mom comments, then returns her attention to her own reflection. She sighs. "Perhaps, I'll call around next week for a good New York plastic surgeon. The guy who did my breasts the last time is dead." 

"Is there a correlation there?" 

"God, I hope not. Hand me the first dress." 

Mom unhooks her bra and tosses it aside, then steps into one of the dresses Monica pulled. It's a teal silk floor-length halter dress with a dangerously low plunge and a beaded waistline. I hook the straps behind Mom's neck and then slide the short zipper up her left side. Mom turns for me. The beads sparkle underneath the lights. 

"Thoughts?" Mom prompts. 

"It looks like it's 1974 and you're pregnant." 

"Not exactly the look I'm going for. Unhook me." 

The next five dresses are tossed to the floor along with the pregnant dress. The final dress is more promising - the palest pink silk with a straight skirt and a mermaid train. The straps are very thin, barely strings, leading to a silver sequined and beaded bodice. Mom moves and the dress glides with her hips. 

"A maybe?" I suggest. 

Mom shakes her head. "It won't do. Absolutely not." Mom turns her back on me, so I may unzip the dress. 

We leave Miss-Miss and continue down Madison to Empire, another boutique Mom heard about from a co-worker. Or an "underling", as Mom refers to her. At Empire, the staff gives us our space while Mom and I browse. It isn't until Mom drapes the second dress over my arm that a salesman comes over and offers his assistance with our selections. Arms loaded, I trail after Mom to the dressing room. 

It isn't as much fun as I anticipated. 

And I'm sort of still peeved at Mom. For the elevator, for the car accident, for everything before and after. She doesn't have to be so difficult. She doesn't have to be so much... 

Like Gran. 

That's exactly who she is. A younger Gran in a short skirt and stiletto heels. Gran with green eyes. Gran with a career in the city. The details aren't parallel, but underneath, it's all the same. The same person all over again. 

"You have a funny look on your face," Mom observes, wiggling a royal purple dress up over her hips. It has a knotted bodice and a deep slit up the right side. "What are you thinking about?" 

I lean back against the dressing room door, folding my arms over my chest. "You always wear skirts," I point out to her. 

"To work," Mom agrees, slipping her arms into the wide dress straps. "I have fantastic legs." 

"Gran never wears skirts. I don't know if I've ever seen her in one." 

Mom snorts. "She probably burned them all when my father died," Mom replies, admiring her bare back in the mirror. "He didn't allow her to wear pants. She's sticking it to him now. Like it matters. Like a dead man cares." Mom snorts again. "A day late and a dollar short. That's your grandmother. Always." 

"Don't you feel sorry for her at all?" 

"She feels sorry enough for herself," Mom answers and turns in the mirror. "I like this one. Very promising, yes? And it's purple. We talk about your grandmother too much." 

"Yes. I like it, too. The dress. You're beautiful." 

Mom smiles at herself in the mirror, runs her fingers back through her bobbed hair. "Do you think I should grow my hair out? I used to wear it long. Do you remember? When you were a very little girl. Hal always liked it long. Something to think on, yes?" 

I shrug. "I don't remember you with long hair." 

"No? You were very young. You liked to pull it." 

"I know you never wanted me." 

It comes out. Just slips. Just happens. Like so many things. And there's no taking it back. 

Mom stares at me. "Excuse me?" she says, surprised and startled. 

"You never wanted me," I repeat. "I know. Aunt Corinne told me." 

Mom continues to stare. There's confusion around her mouth, twitching up to her eyes. "Corinne...told you _what_?" she asks in a measured voice. 

"That you never wanted me." How many times will she make me say it? Until it gets easier. Until it is simply a fact, another detail about myself, no emotion and feeling behind it. Until it beats me down so I accept it. "Aunt Corinne said that you never wanted children. I was a mistake. You cried when you found out that you were pregnant. Cried for a week and prayed for a miscarriage. Aunt Corinne said..." _that you still might not want me._

"When did Corinne tell you this?" 

"When you let me go with her family to Disneyworld." 

Mom stays silent and staring. The confusion has left her mouth and her eyes. The surprise, too. There's nothing. Nothing but Mom standing in her royal purple evening gown, elegant and glamorous, all dressed up for a party. She flexes her fingers, hanging straight down beside her legs. The fingers curl into balls. Mom slams a fist into the dressing room wall. 

"My mother!" she shrieks and pounds the wall again. "That woman!" 

"Is everything all right in there?!" shouts the salesman's voice in alarm. 

Mom screams in response. 

"Madame?" the salesman's voice ventures, hesitantly. 

Mom throws the dressing room door open, smacking the salesman in the face. She storms out into the store. "Unzip this dress," she commands the salesman, who's holding a hand over his nose. "Unzip this dress. I'm taking this dress." The dress falls off her. Falls down to the floor, in a royal purple puddle around her stilettos. Mom stands in Empire, in a fancy New York boutique, in nothing but her fuchsia bra and panties. She screams again, kicking away the royal purple dress, and charges back into the dressing room, banging the door shut behind her. 

"Your grandmother never tells anyone anything, never has anything of substance to say and then, the _one_ time I trust her with something important!" Mom rages, jerking her black and brown tweed skirt upward to her waist. "How _dare_ she tell Corinne something so personal! That wasn't for Corinne! That wasn't for anyone else to know! And who tells such a thing to a _child_? Corinne, that fucking idiot!" 

"It's true then?" I ask and while in my head, my voice is clear and confident, it comes out soft and meek. I never admitted to myself how much I wished it were not true. 

Mom glances up from the buttons of her suit jacket. Her face drains of its rage. It softens in a manner I don't often witness. "You were...unplanned," Mom admits in a quieter voice than she usually speaks in. "Hal and I didn't plan for children. I was...very caught off-guard. I said things to your grandmother that I didn't really mean...or perhaps, I meant in the heat of the moment, but now, are not true. You're here now. We wouldn't send you back." 

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" 

"It's the truth, whether it makes you feel better or not." 

"Gran didn't want you either," I say and it's mean enough that I almost feel almost better. 

Mom's face registers more surprise. "She told you that?" 

"Yes," I answer and it's more or less true. Gran implied it. That's all Gran does. She implies and leaves me wondering, drawing my own conclusions. 

"I know she didn't want me," Mom says. "But it isn't the same." 

"It's exactly the same." 

The salesman raps on the dressing room door. "Madame?" he calls out, uncertainly. "I must ask you to come out." 

Any other time, Mom would argue, but today she obeys. She swings her purse onto her shoulder, steps over the discarded dresses. She opens the dressing room door and the salesman hovers on the other side, watchful for another meltdown, unsure exactly how to handle my mother. 

Mom pays for the royal purple dress with her credit card. She arranges for it to be delivered to her office. The boutique staff watch her as she signs the receipt and fills out the details for the delivery. Mom wears her lips in a thin line as she does so, then sets down the pen and smiles. "Thank you," she says, breathlessly. "For all your help." 

The staff has no response. 

On the street, Mom hails a cab, standing on the curb, arm raised into the air. She stands like that, so still, until finally a cab stops for us. We climb in and sit apart, as far apart as I can manage. Mom sets her purse between us. I keep mine in my lap, hang on to it, firm within my grip. 

"Grand Central," Mom instructs the driver. It's a woman this time. She has an afro and a tattoo on her neck. A large rose curling down into her t-shirt, vanishing. "Take your time." 

And just like that we're going home. 

"It isn't the same at all," Mom tells me. "I don't blame you. It wasn't your fault. My mother has always blamed me. I don't hold a grudge over your being born. I'm not vindictive like that. At first, it was very hard, but in time, I became excited. I adjusted. It wasn't easy and I admit, I disliked pregnancy and growing fat and having swollen ankles and morning sickness. I always knew I wasn't meant to be a mother. I am very selfish." 

"Yes, you are," I agree and stare out the window. I hurt. I hurt deep inside. An ache that will not dull and disappear. 

"Hal and I didn't want you to know. It's a terrible thing to know. To know that you were not wanted. At least that changed for you. You are lucky, in a way. I grew to want you. After fifty-one years, my mother still does not want me." Mom's hand grazes my own, fingertips skimming my skin. I snatch my hand away. 

"Gran told you that?" I ask Mom, as I watch out the window. Traffic's stopped. We're stuck here, together in a cab, in the middle of a noisy New York street. I think the air conditioner's broken. 

"Your grandmother? My mother?" Mom replies and chuckles, hard and bitter. "Does she ever tell anyone anything? Anyone other than Corinne? She didn't need to tell me. It's in everything she says and does, underneath her words and actions. I figured it out for myself. Haven't you?" 

"Haven't I what?" 

Mom chuckles again. The same hard sound. "Oh, Grace. You're supposed to be so good at math. Can't you add and subtract? Don't you know that I was born only five months after my parents were married?" 

I glance over at Mom, surprised. Quickly, I add and subtract in my head. The numbers don't come out right. "I guess I never thought about it," I admit. "And Gran..." 

"Is so self-righteous," Mom finishes, even though those aren't my words. "I suppose I wouldn't figure her for someone who'd get knocked up out of wedlock either. Of course, I wouldn't figure her for a lot of things if I didn't know better." Mom sniffs, sucking air hard into her nose. "She didn't want to marry your grandfather. I got her trapped and she's never forgiven me. She said that to me. 'You trapped me. I'm stuck because of you.' It's the closest to a confession she's ever made. I got her stuck and made her miserable. Everything she had planned for her life, I ruined. She didn't get her senior year at Smith. She didn't get anything she ever wanted. And it's all my fault." Mom looks at me. There is no expression. "So, you see, Grace, it could be so much worse. I've never blamed you." 

This isn't the Gran that I know. This isn't the Gran who sits with me while I do my summer reading, who picks me up for church, who makes me ham sandwiches and lemonade. I've never met this Gran, but maybe I've caught glimpses of her, glimpses of her taunting my mother from inside the car, glimpses of her refusing to step onto our front porch. 

"It's her own fault," I hear myself say. "She shouldn't have had sex when she wasn't married and not with someone she didn't even love." 

"Nothing is ever her fault," Mom replies with a surprising lack of emotion. "And that's hardly the worst of her sins." 

I look at Mom, curiously. 

The driver glances at us in the rearview mirror. "I hope ya'll are practicing for some soap opera or something," she says. 

Mom narrows her eyes. 

And clams up. 

The train back to Stoneybrook's packed. Mom and I find two seats beside the window. The kid next to Mom has chocolate and peanut butter smeared all over his face and gooped in his hair. His father, beside me, smells like oranges and gasoline. We were probably supposed to wait for my father. We were probably supposed to go out to dinner with him. Somewhere expensive and Mom would charge it to her expense account. My stomach rumbles. I'd like that expensive meal now. 

The closer we draw to Stoneybrook, the tighter Mom's jaw sets. Color creeps along her bare white neck until when we reach Stoneybrook, it's feverishly red. Red like a rash, red like a flame. Her outside shows what's in and somehow, it doesn't make her ugly. 

In the train station parking lot, Mom throws her purse at a handicapped sign when we realize we're stranded without a car. The Lexus sits in the first row, black and dusty, taunting us because neither of us has a key. 

"We can call someone for a ride," I suggest. 

"Who are we going to call?" Mom snaps. "_Corinne_?" 

Mom takes off her stilettos and we walk home. We don't talk. We don't even complain. Instead, we brood. In front of me, the back of Mom's neck is so fiery red, it may burst into flame. My mother may spontaneously combust. Right here on Kimball. I feel my own anger rising up like boils on my skin. It comes in waves, my mother's and my rage. We are fine and then, we are not. 

Mom storms through the front door of our house, slamming her purse and shoes on the coffee table. She goes straight to the office. _Alcohol, of course,_ I think. But my mother tricks me. She doesn't head for the bar. She heads for her desk, jerking open a drawer and slamming down the phone book. She flings it open with such force a page rips. 

I know what she is looking for. 

She's looking up Aunt Corinne's number. She has to look up her own sister's phone number. 

She rips another page. "How the hell do you spell 'Shaughnessy'?" she growls under her breath. Before I can spell it out, her clear-polished nail stabs at a page. She pounds out the number on the keypad. She holds the receiver to her ear with one hand, the other hand held defiantly at her hip. Her body is tall and rigid. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Mom screeches into the receiver. There's a pause. "You know who this is!" 

I go upstairs. 

In my bedroom, I still hear my mother. Her screams echo up the stairs and down the hall, envelope our house. After using the restroom, I come out of my bedroom and sit at the top of the stairs. I fold my arms over the knees of my jean capris and listen to Mom rant at Aunt Corinne. I wonder if Aunt Corinne will blame me. Maybe Gran will blame me, too. Aunt Corinne is her favorite. Everyone knows. 

Mom slams the phone down. I hear it vibrate on the desk, rattling against the wood. I hear it all the way up the stairs. It's followed by clinking glass as my mother pours a drink. And then my mother's voice comes again, raw and furious. "How dare you tell my secrets to Corinne!" she bellows and I know that she's called Gran. 

The telephone call doesn't last very long because Gran hangs up on her. 

Mom and her drink appear at the bottom of the stairs. She stares up at me. "I think it's best that you stay away from Corinne and your grandmother," she tells me. 

"They don't want to see me?" I ask and alarm jumps up with my voice. 

"I'm asking this of you." 

I wonder if my mother has any right to ask anything of me. "This is all about you," I answer her. "This isn't about me. You aren't trying to protect me." 

"Of course I'm trying to protect you," argues Mom. She presses the glass to her lips. "You're my daughter. I will always protect you. That's all I've ever tried to do." 

"You didn't want me." 

"You're here, aren't you?" 

I stare down at my mother, down at the bottom of the stairs, down at her and her drink, and the gaping distance between us. 


	28. Chapter 28

When I surface from the swimming pool on Saturday morning, my father's standing over me, at the edge of the pool, not dressed for summer in khaki pants and a long-sleeved button-up. I let out a weak strangled cry of surprise when my head bobs up and I find him standing there. 

"Sorry," Dad apologizes. 

"You scared me," I reply and tread the water. "It's okay." 

"Can I talk to you?" 

"Right _now_?" 

"You aren't busy." 

I scowl slightly at my father. _Of course_ I'm busy. He's interrupting my morning routine. The routine he would know about if he were ever around. I remain scowling for a moment, then give in, hoisting myself onto the warm cement. When I rise to my feet, my father hands me a towel. I take my time, toweling my hair and patting my body dry. Dad stands patiently, waiting for me. When I finish, I wrap the towel around my waist and take a seat at the patio table. Dad sits down across from me. 

"Fay's very upset," Dad starts. 

Everything's always about my mother. 

"She was up all night," Dad continues, although I already knew. I heard her all night long as I turned in my sleep, all night long, downstairs spinning on her stationary bike. "She told me everything that happened. Everything with you and Allison and Corinne. I'm sorry." 

"Why?" I reply, edgily. 

Dad stares at me with that blankness our family has perfected. He runs a hand back over where he once had hair. "I'm sorry about...everything," he finally says. "Corinne...she can be very vindictive. She never should have said that to you. She was trying to hurt Fay, not you. You shouldn't take it personally." 

I don't know whether to believe that. I don't know Aunt Corinne well enough to decide. For being the favored child, she's hardly ever around. 

"Fay talked to you," Dad says. "Are you all right now?" 

No. 

No. 

No. 

"I'm fine." 

Dad nods and starts to rise from his chair. "Good. Good. It's not something you should worry over," Dad tells me and comes around behind his chair. He rests his hands on it. "You didn't ruin anything, Grace." And then he goes back inside the house. 

It's the longest conversation my father and I have had in years. 

I remain on the patio, watching a leaf float in the swimming pool, turning, turning, moving down the length of the pool. I watch until my hair dries, until all the chlorine dries on my body. I go inside the house and pad up the stairs. The house is completely quiet, not unusual, and I wonder if my parents have left. In my bathroom, I peel off my swimsuit and step into the shower. While I'm shampooing my hair, a creak sounds over my head. I tilt my head back, staring up at the ceiling above. Another creak comes. Someone's in the attic. It must be my mother. What's with this family and attics? 

I finish getting ready without interruption. Inside the closet, I decide on an airy cotton dress in canary yellow and tug it over my head. I wrap a string of red beads on gold chain twice around my neck, then slide into a pair of gold flip-flops. Back in the bathroom, I curl my hair and pull it back with a tortoise-shell barrette. The creaking continues above me, my mother pacing in the attic. 

"I'm going out to meet my friends," I inform my father when I find him in the kitchen, slicing an apple. 

Dad looks over at me, the knife hovering above the bright red skin of the apple. "That's good, Grace," he says, almost relieved as if he feared I may never leave the house again, sequestering myself in my bedroom, hiding at the bottom of the swimming pool. "Have a fun time. You should enjoy your summer." 

"It's been _wonderful_ so far," I reply, sarcastically, then turn and stomp out the garage door. 

I don't really think about it. I just sort of end up at Mary Anne's house. I know Mary Anne isn't there. I park at the curb and take my time getting to the front door, making slow steps up the walk. At the front door, I press the doorbell, holding it down until I hear the thudding of approaching feet. Sharon opens the door. There's a sprig of parsley tucked behind her ear and an expression of vague irritation on her face. 

"I think once would suffice," she informs me, haughtily. 

"Sorry." 

Sharon works up a smile for me. She is not fond of me. I know this from the things she tells Mary Anne, the things Mary Anne repeats to me, not realizing the lack of compliment within the words. _Sharon says you're just like your mother when she was in high school._ I am indifferent toward Sharon. I don't like her as I do Mrs. McGill and Mrs. Stern, but I certainly don't loathe her as I do Mrs. Bernstein. She simply exists as an adult within my world. 

"Morning, Grace," Sharon says, starting over with an obvious effort. "Mary Anne's not here. She went away for the weekend with her father." There's a hardness in the words _her father_. "She'll be back Monday evening." 

"Oh...really?" I reply, feigning surprise. "Hm...oh, well, is Dawn here?" 

"Dawn? Yes, she is. She's out back." Sharon takes a backwards step, widening the opening in the doorway. "Come on in." 

"Thanks," I say, stepping over the threshold and into the foyer. 

"You can head on to the backyard," Sharon tells me. "She'll be happy to see you, I think. She's been bummed out ever since that big fuss the other night. Richie and I are taking care of everything. There's nothing for her to worry about. These things happen." 

"Mm-hm," I agree. 

Sharon waves me on. I cross through the house - Mary Anne's house - going out the french doors that open onto the deck. Dawn's on the deck, stretched out on a wooden chaise lounge in a hot pink bikini, arms folded behind her head, which is tilted back, bathing in the sunlight. 

"You're going to be covered in wrinkles by the time you turn twenty," I inform her, flatly. 

Dawn raises her head. I can't see her eyes because they're hidden behind the dark lenses of an atrocious pair of sunglasses. Hot pink frames with plastic pineapples in the corners. 

"Nice sunglasses." 

"Have you looked in a mirror?" Dawn retorts, sitting up. "My friend Sunny sent them to me." 

"Sunny has horrid taste." 

"They're a _gag_ gift." 

"They're making me gag." 

The corners of Dawn's mouth curl upward. "So, what's going on?" she asks. "You went into New York yesterday?" 

I take a seat on the chaise across from hers, perching on its edge. "Yes." 

"How was it? Did you buy a lot of stuff? Did you eat at the Hard Rock?" 

I shrug. 

Dawn cocks an eyebrow. It rises just above the frame of her sunglasses, a white-blonde wisp peering over at me. 

"You shouldn't leave these doors open," comes Sharon's voice and when we glance at her, she's stepping through them, carrying a glass in each hand. "You know Richie's in fits over the electricity bill, Dawn. If he were home, he'd blow his stack at you. We're not paying to air condition the entire neighborhood!" 

Dawn's shoulders slump a little, so slightly, it's almost unnoticeable. She sighs. "I know." 

"If it were up to me..." Sharon's voice trails off. She extends the glasses toward us and smiles. "Here you are, girls. I whipped up a batch of tropical iced tea lemonade this morning. It's very refreshing." 

"Thanks, Mrs. Spier," I say, taking a glass and Dawn echoes her thanks. 

Sharon cups her hands around her mouth and bellows out into the yard, "Jeff! Jeff!" causing me to turn my attention in that direction. I hadn't noticed Dawn's brother. He's far from us, a blur of action, pounding a volleyball over a net. That brother and sister of Mallory Pike's are with him, along with a dark-haired girl. "Jeff!" Sharon calls out again. "I'm putting your pizza in the oven!" 

Jeff looks over in mid-jump and ends up stumbling over his own feet. He shoots his mother a thumbs-up and returns his attention to the game. 

"Is there such thing as tofu pizza?" I ask Dawn when her mother's gone back inside the house. 

"Wait half an hour and you may find out." 

I wave my hand at her. "No thanks." 

Dawn grins and jumps up from the chaise. "Let's go inside. You're molting." 

Dawn and I traipse upstairs to her bedroom, careful not to squish Tigger, asleep just within her doorway, curled into a tight ball. Dawn lifts him gently, so I may close the door. Tigger releases a soft _mew_ as Dawn deposits him onto a mound of discarded, dirty clothes. 

"He won't leave me alone," Dawn tells me, crossing to her closet. She pulls out a white and hot pink tank dress and drops it over her head. "He's planted himself in my room and won't leave." Dawn sighs. "The least of my problems," she says and falls backward onto her bed. "Even when Richard isn't here, Mom tries to fight with him." 

"Why don't they just get a divorce?" I ask from the desk chair. 

Dawn shrugs. "Who knows?" she answers. "Maybe Mom doesn't want to be a divorcee again. I don't know. Maybe neither of them wants to admit that they made a mistake. Everyone was right the first time around." Dawn shrugs again. "I don't have to help pay for a new car though. Another of his baseless threats, Mom says. She says he's a wuss. I think he just calmed down. We worked it out, he and I. Sort of. Mom interfered some. I'm going to help him with a big landscaping project next weekend, plus take on extra chores. Not that I don't already have extra chores with Mary Anne still being MIA and all." 

"All you people ever do is fight." 

"When we're all together, yeah, I guess." 

I set my glass on the desk behind me. I haven't tasted it. I don't trust anything Sharon prepares. "Mary Anne can be a drama queen, but she doesn't usually carry things this far," I observe. 

"She's thrown some pretty big tantrums, actually. She can give the silent treatment like nobody's business. But yeah, I guess she's never been this angry before. Mom...I love my mom and all, don't get me wrong. But Mom...she hasn't treated Mary Anne very fairly this past year. Mom has expectations that Mary Anne can't possibly ever live up to. Mom wants Mary Anne to be me." 

"I think one of you is enough." 

Dawn snorts, softly. "_Thanks._ Really, though, that's what Mom wants. I think she's so unhappy in Stoneybrook and in her marriage that she just wants things the way they were. But Jeff and I are gone now and Mom can't follow. I think she feels trapped by Richard and Mary Anne. It's not their fault. Mom made her choice, chose to marry Richard, but I guess she thought things would turn out differently. She thought I'd stay and even maybe that Jeff would come back. And we'd all be a family. That didn't happen." 

Nothing ever works out the way we want. 

"Mom probably doesn't realize that she's doing it," Dawn continues, "but she tries to make Mary Anne into me. She buys clothes for Mary Anne that I would wear, cooks meals for Mary Anne that I would eat. Mary Anne complained about it a few times back when we still talked sometimes. Mary Anne and I aren't the same person. Obviously." 

"Is that why Mary Anne's so mad at you?" I ask Dawn. That's a really stupid reason, even for Mary Anne. 

"No." 

I lift my eyebrows. 

"That's all I'm saying," Dawn tells me. It's casual, but there's a firmness hidden in the corners. Mary Anne has a secret. Someone has a secret. And despite whatever rages on between them, both are keeping it. I wonder if that's what it's like to have a sister. 

It certainly isn't like that for Mom and Aunt Corinne. 

"So, how was New York?" Dawn asks, finishing her drink. She's done with herself. She's moving onto me. 

"Hot and crowded." 

"Yeah, I'm not a fan either," Dawn says and sets her empty glass on the night table. "Is that a new outfit? It's different from your usual look. You look very...what's a cool place in New York? The Village? SoHo? You look very SoHo." 

"It's not new." 

"Oh," Dawn says and frowns at me. "What's the matter?" 

"Nothing." 

Dawn's frown deepens. "You are such a liar," she accuses me. "Did something happen in New York? You went with Stacey, right? Did something happen with her?" 

"There isn't anything wrong between me and Stacey," I reply, shortly. I don't think there is. I think Stacey forgives me for the way I am. "I'm just...I'm...having a problem with my mother." 

Dawn nods. "Okay...and?" 

My face remains straight as I think. I let the flip-flops drop from my feet onto the carpet of Dawn's bedroom and fold my long legs up, folding them underneath me, indian-style. I rest my hands on my feet while I think. It's so easy for Dawn. Ever since I met her - really met her - this summer, she is nothing but honest. She says things that surprise me, not because of what she's says, but because she says them. She admits things about herself, about her family, about anyone she meets. She admits her thoughts freely and it frightens me that such a thing could be so simple. I like to be tight and unreleased. 

"My mother's being difficult," I say and it feels as if the words were ripped from me, up my throat and out into the air. "She doesn't...she isn't..." 

Dawn nods. 

"I don't want to talk about it." 

Dawn stops nodding. She watches me, curiously, for a moment. Then she nods again. "Yeah. Okay," she says. 

I turn my head away from her, gazing off to the side. How am I supposed to admit aloud that my mother never wanted me? It was hard enough hearing it from Aunt Corinne. Harder still when my mother told me, confirmed what I'd always wanted to be a lie. So, I look away from Dawn as if she may read the words on my face, the truth of my beginnings written out for her to read. "Where did you get those?" I ask when my gaze falls on a slim vase bursting with yellow and white daisies. 

"Oh, those..." Dawn replies. 

"Are they from your boyfriend in California?" 

"Oh, no..." Dawn says, her voice wavering slightly, enough to make me curious enough to stand up and cross to the vase sitting atop the dresser by the window. I examine the vase, peering through the daisy stems in search of a card. "I removed the card," Dawn tells me. "I didn't want anyone to read it." 

I lift my eyebrows at her. "Oh, really?" 

Dawn cocks her eyebrow back at me. "Yes, really. And you don't want to know who they're from." 

I groan and bury my face in my hands. "Ugh! Logan Bruno!" 

"He's sorry about the other night. The cops were already at the party when he and Cary pulled up. The cops blocked them in. We were gone when he came back." 

I roll my eyes. Is Dawn that easy? "And you've forgiven him?" I ask with another eye roll. "I don't accept his excuse." 

"I didn't say I forgave him." 

I cross my arms with a disapproving look at Dawn and return to the chair at the desk, falling back into it hard. If Logan Bruno sent me flowers, I would immediately drive to his house and ram them down his throat. Then I would kick him in his most delicate of areas. He might be truly apologetic then. 

"Let's go downstairs," Dawn suggests, sliding off her bed. "Jeff and his friends made a spinach and artichoke pizza. I'm not hungry but - " Dawn pauses. "And I see from the look on your face that you're not hungry either. Let's go downstairs anyway. I want another look at Mom's senior year yearbook." 

I groan again. "We're still on this? Don't you have anything better to do?" 

"No," Dawn replies, passing by me. She grabs my glass off the desk and takes a long drink from it. "Come on, Grace! I'm in the mood for a mystery! Aren't you? I seem to remember you being a bit more adventurous in junior high. Come on! We need something to break up the dullness of this summer - " 

"You think this summer's been _dull_?" I interrupt. 

"Driving into a tree aside," Dawn quickly adds. "Come on! Your aunt's suicide, your grandmother's strangeness, _her attic_...This all adds up to a long-forgotten mystery and Dawn Schafer's on the case. Care to be my Dr. Watson?" 

"Only if you'll be my Bess Marvin," I answer, rising and passing her swiftly, deciding to humor her. I lead the way downstairs and into the Spiers' living room, where I flop down on the blue couch, waiting for Dawn to bring the yearbook to me. 

Dawn collects the yearbook from its odd place on top of the VCR, then rolls onto her stomach on the carpet. "Let's lay on the floor," she suggests, but I suspect it's more of a command. "This is how you're supposed to look at yearbooks." 

"I must have missed that chapter in the guidebook," I grumble, but since I'm already humoring Dawn, slide to the floor and crawl on my knees to her. She's already at the page with Sharon and Aunt Margolo's senior pictures. Sharon looks so confident and content, not at all like someone who would grow up miserable and trapped. Everyone on the glossy yearbook pages look so full of promise, anticipating all the great things to come. Everyone except Aunt Margolo with her distant stare, not looking as if she anticipates anything, not looking as if she expects anything great to ever happen to her. I wonder if she had any idea then that she wouldn't live past nineteen, that very soon she would die. 

Dawn turns to the index and finds Sharon's name. _Porter, Sharon Emerson_. Dawn flips to those pages and we see Sharon in the Homecoming Court, Sharon making signs for the Pep Squad, Sharon on stage in the Drama Club's production of _Damn Yankees_. When Dawn returns to the index, to _McCracken, Margolo_, there's only one other picture listed for Aunt Margolo. We find it in the Student Life section, buried at the center of the photo spread. It's Aunt Margolo, in black and white, seated on the football stadium bleachers with four other girls. She has that far off look, staring out at something that may not exist. 

"Very sixties," Dawn says, admiringly, tapping a blue fingernail on Aunt Margolo in her geometric-patterned minidress and go-go boots. "I don't think she could possibly be wearing any more mascara though." 

"No," I disagree, staring down at the photo. "I think Tracey Zaretsky's got her beat by half a tube." 

Dawn closes the yearbook with a sigh. "There are no answers here," she says, reaching over to slide the yearbook back onto the VCR. She sits back on her haunches, folding her arms over the knees of her striped dress. Her eyes brighten. "We haven't looked at Mom's other yearbooks!" she cries and falls back, dragging herself over to the book shelf. She pulls down three more navy-covered yearbooks. "Should we work backwards or forwards?" Dawns asks, then answering her own question, says, "Forwards. Freshman year," and flips to the index. 

We find Sharon and Aunt Margolo's class pictures. They are younger versions of their senior pictures. Sharon smiles. Aunt Margolo does not. Dawn turns to other pages and we discover little surprises. Sharon and Aunt Margolo standing in the lunch line, arms around each other, grinning for the camera. I don't recall ever seeing Aunt Margolo's smile. It's identical to my mother's. Then there's Sharon and Margolo leaning on rackets on the tennis court. Sharon and Margolo posing with the Drama Club. Sharon and Margolo eating sandwiches in the quad with a fifth grader. 

"Why is that ten year old at Stoneybrook High?" I ask Dawn. 

Dawn bursts out laughing. "That's not a ten year old!" she shrieks and stabs her finger at the name _Rich Spier_ nestled between _Sharon Porter_ and _Margolo McCracken_. "Look at him!" Dawn roars. "He's a little baby! How have I never seen this before?" She rolls onto her back, clutching her stomach. "Oh, it hurts. It hurts." 

"He's like four feet tall!" I exclaim. 

"I know!" Dawn laughs. "And I think his mom cut his hair!" 

"I don't know what your mom was thinking," I tell her, shutting the yearbook. I open the sophomore year one. While Dawn continues laughing, I find more of the same. Sharon and Margolo appear together in all their photos. Like a Stacey-and-Mary-Anne or an Emily-and-Julie. Sometimes they're with other girls. Sometimes they're with Mr. Spier. In one photo, he's carrying Sharon's books. In another, he's holding her jacket. In all the group shots, I don't recognize any of the girls from the picture on the bleachers. 

Junior year isn't quite the same story. Sharon and Margolo appear together at the start of the year. They stand side by side in the Homecoming Court, arms raised and waving. They're together in the background at the Halloween Carnival, tearing tickets for the Drama Club cake walk. And they're together in a crowded photo from the Christmas Ball, Sharon on the arm of Mr. Spier, Margolo on the arm of some boy whose face blurred as he turned to look at her. Then after that, there is nothing. There is no sign of Aunt Margolo existing at Stoneybrook High after Christmas. She disappears from the Drama Club. She disappears from the tennis team and the swim team. She disappears from the dances. 

"Where'd she go?" Dawn wants to know, thumbing once more through the Student Life section. She passes a photo of Sharon and a much taller Mr. Spier at the Spring Fling and then a photo of a sour-looking Sharon in the background of the Valentine's Day rose sale. 

"I don't know," I answer. 

"Where'd she go?" Dawn asks again, puzzled, quickly turning once more to the sports section. "She was all over the place before!" 

"Maybe she just wasn't photographed," I suggest. "Or her photos didn't make it in." 

"Stoneybrook High was teeny tiny back then. I think every student appears twenty or thirty times in this yearbook," Dawn argues and runs a finger down the roster for the swim team. "She isn't even listed on here! She was on the roster the last two years!" 

I push myself up from the floor, folding my legs and leaning back against the couch. "I don't know," I say when it's all I come up with. I can't explain it. Dawn's right. How does someone slip into the woodwork at a school like Stoneybrook High in the sixties? The student body must have been less than half the size it is now. How does a single girl vanish? Blink and she's gone. 

Dawn has the senior yearbook open in front of her again. "She's not on the tennis team roster for this year. Or, " Dawn flips several pages, "the swim team. However..." Dawn reaches across the yearbook and opens another, the Junior yearbook. She turns to its sports section. "She's on the tennis team roster for this year. So, she completed the tennis season and we know she was still around at Christmastime. Whatever happened must have happened sometime after the holidays." 

"If anything happened at all," I point out. 

Dawn slams the yearbook shut with a definitive nod. "Something happened," she informs me, confidently. She returns the yearbooks to the book shelf, including the senior year one. How will anyone find it now. "We need to get up to your grandmother's attic. Does she ever leave that house? Maybe we can lure her out with the promise of a gardening sale." 

I giggle at Dawn. "You're too weird," I tell her. 

Dawn opens her mouth to reply, but Sharon sweeps into the room, holding a plate out in front of her. There's a spatula sticking out of her pants. "I don't mean to intrude, girls," she says with a giggle, "but I brought you some carrot-cranberry bars." She sets the plate on an ottoman near us. 

"Yum! Thanks, Mom!" Dawn exclaims, scooting nearer to the ottoman. 

"Yeah, thanks," I mumble. 

Dawn doesn't appear nearly as excited when Sharon takes a seat in the armchair by the ottoman. She sinks down with a sigh, then smiles brightly. "So, what's going on, girls? Are you in here gossiping about boys?" she asks, slyly. Why do mothers always try that approach first? We're not going to _tell_ them. "I never expected to see you, Grace, hanging out with Dawn." 

I have to wonder at the hidden meaning behind that comment. 

"Kind of like how you used to hang out with her aunt, huh, Mom?" Dawn pipes up, clearly prepared to turn her mother's presence to her own favor. 

"What?" Sharon replies, slightly perplexed. 

"Granny told me that you and Grace's aunt were best friends. Remember, we talked about it last week?" 

"Oh, sure..." Sharon answers and shifts in her seat. "We were neighborhood friends, sure. Margolo lived right across the street and there were no other kids our age in the neighborhood. We played together when we were kids. I didn't know her too well, otherwise. We had different friends at school." 

Sharon is such a liar. 

"I used to baby-sit your Aunt Corinne sometimes, though," Sharon tells me. "When I was in high school. Your mom was long gone by then. Where did she go? Wellesley? I think that's where Margolo ended up as well. It was all so long ago. Who remembers?" Sharon chuckles, nervous and fake. "Really, I knew Corinne better from baby-sitting her. Margolo was always off on a date. She was rather wild. We really had nothing in common." She pauses. "Ah, well, girls, I'm going to check on Jeff's progress cleaning up in the kitchen." Sharon stands and hurries out of the room, leaving the spatula on the armchair cushion. 

"Your mother," I start, very slowly, enunciating each word clearly, "is such a liar." 

Dawn stares after her mother, who has long disappeared into the kitchen. She's lost in thought. She turns her head to me, slowly, to look at me, quizzically. "How soon do you think we can get up to your grandmother's attic?" she asks me. 

"Tomorrow," I answer. 

Dawn and I spend the early afternoon planning and plotting, then go outside for a game of volleyball with Jeff and his friends. I stay as long as I can, until the Pikes' mom telephones for them and Sharon mentions it's almost dinnertime. When I return to my house, the Lexus is gone. My parents are on their way to New York, the place their true lives are lived, to a charity event with a company that is more important than anything. Even me. I pull a pineapple soda out of the fridge, pop the top, and trudge upstairs. I turn on the television. On the night table, beside my bed, I find a photograph laid in front of the telephone. I set the soda can on a coaster beside it and pick up the photo. It's of my mother, seated on the couch in her old Manhattan apartment. She's wearing a purple dress. She's also pregnant with me. One of her arms rests across her stomach, the other waves at the photographer. And she's smiling. 

I turn the photo over. There's a garnet ring taped to the back. 


	29. Chapter 29

I park my Corvette around the corner from Bertrand Drive and walk the rest of the way to the Porter's house. Dawn and I agreed to meet at her grandparents', where we could stake out Gran's, and I promised to hide my car. _In plain sight,_ Dawn had said, _so not to arouse suspicion._ I opted to humor her. I can be very agreeable when I wish. 

"Psst!" a voice hisses when I step off the sidewalk and onto the Porter's walkway. I turn around, searching for the source of the voice. "Up here!" comes another hiss. 

I tilt back my head, shielding my eyes. Dawn's partially hidden within the branches of the Porter's oak tree, all decked out in green camouflage shorts and a nasty moss green wife beater. I am appalled, but not at all shocked that Dawn owns such a hideous ensemble. "Have you been taking espionage lessons from Paul Stern?" I inquire. 

"Huh?" Dawn replies, then presses a finger to her lips before swinging down from the branch onto a lower one. She hops down to the flower bed, but not too gracefully, tipping backward on her heels and falling into the tree trunk. "I've been scoping out our mark," Dawn tells me. 

"What?" 

"You know, our mark. Your grandmother." 

"I'm not sure that's the correct term," I say. "You looked ridiculous up there. You thought _I_ might arouse suspicion? This isn't a game, you know." 

"Don't be so crabby," Dawn replies, nonchalantly, placing her hands on her hips. A pair of binoculars swing beneath her breasts from a black lanyard. Dawn's pulled her hair out of her face and into a loose braid and smudged dark eyeliner beneath her bright blue eyes. The laces of her mud brown hiking boots hang unlaced, the ends dangling near her ankles. 

"You look like California Rambo," I inform Dawn. "Love the hiking boots." 

"I borrowed them from Nicky Pike. He has dainty feet. Come on, let's step onto the porch for your debriefing." 

"My..." I let it drop, following Dawn up the walkway to the porch. 

Dawn surveys the neighborhood from a spot behind the railing, hands still planted on her hips. Great. Dawn thinks this is some kind of G.I. Joe war game. This is a brand of silliness I'd expect from Julie. Dawn turns back to me, her already bright eyes shining with eagerness and mischief. "I watched your grandmother drive away at oh-eight-hundred hours - " 

"She left that early?" 

"Oh, well, no. She actually left at eight-forty, but I didn't know how to say that properly," Dawn admits, dropping the role play. "We lucked out. Granny said that she and Mrs. McCracken are both going to a luncheon after the service. We'll have more time to poke around the attic than we thought!" 

I nod. Good. We assumed we'd have an hour and a half at the most while Gran was at church. I wonder if she went to pick me up like always. I wonder how long she sat at the curb in her Mercedes, leaning on the horn. Maybe Mom went outside and yelled at her. Maybe I would want that and maybe I would not. 

"Okay, so take out the key and we'll head over," Dawn says, breaking into my thoughts. 

My stomach sinks. "The key?" I repeat. 

"Yeah. The key to your grandmother's house," Dawn says, her mouth turning down into a frown. "You have a spare key, right?" 

I shake my head as my stomach twists into a giant knot. Gran's never given me a key. I've never thought much about it, but now wonder why not. I visit often. Shouldn't I have a key? 

Dawn's frown deepens. "I just assumed..." Her voice dies in her throat. 

I cross my arms and sag back against the house. We were so close! 

"I know!" Dawn cries, brightening in an instant. She hits herself on the forehead. "We're so dumb! Granny and Pop-Pop must have a spare key! They've been your grandmother's neighbors for almost fifty years! Come on!" Dawn charges into the house with me sweeping in behind her. Dawns leads me into the kitchen, where she jerks open a drawer by the telephone. "It'll be in here," she tells me, pulling out a mini-binder. She flips it open. Inside are several plastic sandwich bags, neatly labeled, each containing a single key. Mr. and Mrs. Porter certainly have a better grasp on organization than their daughter. Dawn tosses aside the bags labeled _Our Spare_ and _Sharon_. Then she tosses aside _Gates_, _Mullins_, and _Rheardon_ until coming to the final bag. 

It's labeled _O'Hare_. 

"Where's McCracken?" Dawn demands. "Where is your grandmother's key?" 

"There...isn't one." 

Frowning, Dawn goes back through the bags again. Then she pulls out the entire contents of the drawer. She finds dry cleaning coupons and a roll of film, but not my grandmother's spare key. It isn't there. It doesn't exist. 

"Maybe the Gateses have it," Dawn suggests, hopefully, not wanting the adventure to end prematurely, for there not to be yet another roadblock in our path. "I saw Dr. Gates mowing the lawn while I was up in the tree. We can go over and ask - " 

"He doesn't have it," I interrupt. "Aunt Corinne..." I allow my own sentence to drop. Aunt Corinne might not even have a key. I can't ask her now. Even if I could and she did, I doubt she'd hand it over. No, this isn't a time for hunting down keys. It's a time for breaking and entering, breaking into the house and into Gran's secrets. She can't hide them forever. "Follow me," I command, striding purposefully out of the kitchen and out the front door. 

Dawn trots after me, attempting to match my long-legged stride. I lead her up Gran's driveway and through the side gate. We round the back of Gran's house, where Penelope greets us, yipping and biting at our ankles. Gran's right. Why did Aunt Corinne think she needed a dog? 

I try the patio door. It's locked. I try each of the windows, silently thanking Gran for not believing in alarm systems. The last window refuses to open, just like the others. There's not a way into the house. I take a step backward and tilt my head up, shielding my eyes once more. No way in. 

At least not on the ground floor. 

I stare at Gran's bedroom window on the second floor, cracked open ever so slightly, the sheer periwinkle curtains rustling in an early morning breeze. The bedroom window beside the magnolia tree, taller and thicker than the one in the Bernstein's front yard. "I wish Paul were here," I sigh, lowering my hand from my eyes. I pause. "Did I say that out loud?" 

"Yes," Dawn answers, easily. "And I know exactly what you're thinking. But we don't need Paul. I can get to that window." 

"You're going to climb the magnolia?" I respond, barely masking my surprise and awe. 

"Of course not. Do I look nuts to you?" Dawn says, moving toward the garden shed. "I'm getting the ladder. I'll climb onto the patio and then across the roof to the window." 

I roll my eyes. Oh, _yes_, that's so much less nutty than climbing the magnolia. 

"No sweat," Dawn says, passing in front of me with the ladder banging at her side, the end tipping and dragging onto the cement. "This won't be my first time on a roof. Or my first time climbing through a second story window." 

"You're a wild bunch out in California." 

Dawn winks at me. "I'll tell you about it when you're older. Now hold the ladder steady," she orders, already on the second rung. In a lightening flash of moss green and swinging golden hair, Dawn's up the ladder and on top of the patio. "I can see into all the backyards from up here!" she exclaims, making a visor with her hands. "Hey! Erica Blumberg doesn't live around here, does she? I think I see her on that diving board over there!" Dawn starts to wave an arm wildly in the air. 

We're going to jail. 

"Oh! Sorry!" Dawn calls down to me. "Discretion is key!" She ducks down, low to the patio and scurries across it, quick and quiet as a mouse. She puts a cautious hiking boot onto one of the wood shingles, tests her weight on it, then steps completely onto the roof. 

"Please be careful!" I plead from below as Dawn inches toward Gran's window. Dawn's left foot slips, landing in the rain gutter. A curse vaguely reaches my ears. I ignore it, even though cursing on the Sabbath is twice as sinful. 

Somehow, against all odds, Dawn manages to lift Gran's window and climb inside. Grinning, she gives me a thumbs-up from inside the window, then disappears. I wait for her at the patio door. She appears within moments, lazily flicking the lock with her pointer finger and sliding the door open. "Piece of cake," she says in a bored voice. 

"Oh, please. I know you're loving this," I snap, pushing past her into Gran's house. I don't waste time. I head straight for the attic stairs. This time, I don't hesitate. I tug on the chain to the lightbulb as I fly up the narrow stairs. I grasp the doorknob to the attic. I turn and push. Locked again. 

"Where would she hide the key?" Dawn asks from behind me. 

"Her bedroom," I answer without pause, charging back down the stairs. There is a sense of urgency now, an urgency that didn't exist before. Time is precious. Time is ticking, fading into the past. 

Gran's bedroom smells of her violet lotion. It's like she is here, backed into a corner, watching us. I am almost fooled, thinking she is really here, preparing to surprise us. I push away the thought, knowing better, knowing that all that exists right here, right now, is her scent, a reminder of her. I survey Gran's bedroom in an accelerated moment. There is her silk robe tossed across the armchair. There is her nightgown, sloppily folded at the end of the bed. There is a pile of bone-colored heels, discarded outside the open closet door, not worthy of the outfit she selected. There are all the things she leaves in plain sight. Ordinary things. Simple things. Not things that indicate what she may hide. 

I jerk open a drawer on the night stand. It's full of folded silk scarves. I check the drawer below it. It's crowded to the top with a sewing kit and mismatched knitting needles and skimpy balls of yarn. Since when does Gran sew or knit? Dawn lingers in the doorway, watching, respecting that I wouldn't want her in my grandmother's bedroom, going through her drawers, touching her belongings. Even though we've broken into her house with the intention of breaking into her attic, Dawn knows. 

I rush to the other side of the bed, the side where an indentation from Gran's head still presses into the pillow. I open the top drawer of her night stand. I find a book with a torn scrap of newspaper stuck in the middle, her reading glasses, a prescription bottle from the Bernstein's pharmacy, the violet lotion, and a key. A key on a mint green ribbon. 

"Ta-da," I breathe, holding the key by the ribbon, allowing it to glint in the sunlight for Dawn. 

At the top of the attic stairs, Dawn sucks in her breath behind me. "My palms are sweating," she confesses. "Maybe we shouldn't do this." 

I don't even dignify that with an answer. Instead, I jam the key into the keyhole and turn. The lock sticks. I push on the door, squeezing the knob to the right until it clicks. My stomach tightens and doubt flashes in my back thoughts, but I push the doubt away while I push the door forward. I step into the attic. 

"Light!" Dawn says and flips the switch beside the door frame. Several bulbs burst to life along the ceiling, bathing the attic in a dull luminance. 

Beneath the light stands a maze of boxes, twisting along the attic floor. Intertwined with the boxes, breaking into the cardboard monotony, stand discarded pieces of furniture, antique dressers and trunks, armchairs with stained cushions. A large mahogany wardrobe rests in a far corner, cobwebs gathered at its top. There's even a four-poster bed shoved against the wall and holding my breath, I am relieved to see there's no skeleton stretched across its length. 

"It looks like an attic," Dawn says and her disappointment pierces the musty attic air. 

I share her disappointment, but bury it beneath my mask. I take a step farther into the attic, brush my hand over the lid of the nearest box. When I turn my palm over, it's covered in thick dust. "It doesn't look like anyone ever comes up here," I comment, wiping my hand on the buttocks of my jean shorts. 

"She comes up here!" Dawn protests. "I've seen the light on!" 

"Hm," I reply, winding through the box maze. I stop in front of the wardrobe, reaching a hand slowly toward its doors. 

"Maybe you shouldn't..." 

Oh, this is stupid! I grab the handle and yank the door open. No skeletons or zombies or werewolves jump out at me. There aren't even any bats hanging upside down. All that hang in the wardrobe are old dresses wrapped in dry cleaning plastic. I glance over my shoulder at Dawn to roll my eyes. The look on her face stops me. She's frozen at the window, watching me with the queerest expression. 

"What is it?" I ask her. 

"Look over here." 

"I am looking over there. You're just standing beside the window. So what?" 

"Come over here." 

I close the wardrobe doors and start toward Dawn, something heavy weighing in my stomach, wanting me to stay back. I stop in front of Dawn. "What?" I ask. 

"Aren't you looking?" she replies. "Don't you see?" 

I follow Dawn's gaze. She wasn't looking out the window after all. She was looking into the alcove beside it. Unlike the rest of the attic, the alcove is neat and tidy and dust-free. A vibrant colored rug stretches over the wooden floorboards, twisting in golds and dark purples, hints of black at its edges. Above the rug, set against the alcove wall rests an armchair in deep purple velvet. It isn't like the other armchairs cluttered into the attic. It isn't stained or worn. It isn't a relic from a forgotten time. Beside the armchair sits a table with dark-stained, spindly legs and on its top, rests a tea set, delicate ivory-white with lupins running up the sides. And behind it all, hanging proudly against the wall, centered above the armchair is a painting I've never seen. A painting of my grandmother when she was near my age, young and smooth-skinned with her carrot-colored hair pinned up, off her slim white neck and shoulders. She stares down at Dawn and I, stares at us from her post at the middle of a winding staircase, resting a hand on the banister, descending down toward us. Forever descending, coming to meet whomever waits at the bottom. 

"I think this is where she sits," Dawn says in an unsteady voice. 

A chill screams up my spine. I take a step back, but can't look away from the painting. Gran watches me with her green eyes. The painter didn't make them soft and welcoming. Instead the green eyes flash accusingly. 

"We're leaving," I announce, turning away from Gran's sitting area and her portrait. Dawn shoots in front of me, holding her arms around herself. Wispy blonde hairs are raised on her arms. 

We don't make it to the door. Dawn halts at the box I brushed dust from earlier. She runs her own hand over it. "Did you look at this?" she inquires. 

"Yeah. It's real dusty, isn't it? Good thing I remembered my allergy pill this morning." 

Dawn gives me an exasperated look. "What kind of detective are you? Do you ever look at anything properly? Come here and read this lid!" 

"I want to leave," I argue, feeling the eyes on the painting burning into my back. Reluctantly, I move closer to Dawn and the box. I look at it properly. _Margolo_ it reads in faded black lettering. "That's Gran's 'M'," I say, tracing the sweeping curve at the start of the letter. 

"I'm not even asking permission," Dawn says, ripping back the tape on the lid. A thin black leather-bound journal sits on top with the name _Margolo McCracken_ embossed in gold on the cover. A flutter of excitement rises inside me as I reach for Aunt Margolo's journal. When it's in my hands, though, I see what's printed beneath her name. The date of her birth and the date of her death. It isn't Aunt Margolo's journal after all. I open the cover and a stack of newspaper clippings fall out. Dawn picks them up as I stare at the first page of the book. 

"It's some kind of...death ledger," I say in disgust, holding the book farther from me. "It's...it's the names of all the people who attended her funeral. Everyone signed this book. That's sick!" I drop the book back into the box. 

"Did my mother sign it?" wonders Dawn. 

I pick the book up again, turning to the first page, which consists mostly of family members, my grandparents and my mother and Aunt Corinne, various relatives scattered from around New England. I'm surprised to see _Harold Blume_ written below my mother's name. Dad never mentioned attending Aunt Margolo's funeral. I don't even know if he ever met her. I turn the page, where _The Porter Family_ is written on the second line. No specific mention of Sharon. I scan my finger down the page. I recognize the names of some neighbors who still live on Bertrand Drive. I recognize a few others, too. Sue Sanderson, who used to be my mother's best friend and someday became Erica Blumberg's mother. She wasn't my mother's friend by this time and still she came. I wonder what Mom thought of that. I wonder if she remembers. A string of family names follow Sue Sanderson. The Riversons, the Wallingfords, the Irvings and I wonder how these people who wrote their names in my aunt's death ledger are related to the kids I know. 

"Oh! The Kilbourne Family!" Dawn cries, pointing at an entry near the middle of the page. "I knew a Kilbourne!" 

"How exciting for you," I mutter, turning the page. 

"I don't know many people in this town, you know," Dawn says, leaning in for a closer look at the new page. "I haven't seen Richard's name. Who signed last? That may be a clue. Someone who knew something and felt very guilty would sneak in at the last moment to hide in the shadows." 

Humoring Dawn, I flip to the last page. "I don't know any Molly Stratton," I inform Dawn, slamming the book shut. "She probably stopped for gas on the way to the funeral parlor." 

"Yeah, yeah," Dawn sighs, sticking a hand into Aunt Margolo's box. Her yearbooks from Stoneybrook Middle School and Stoneybrook High line up inside. Dawn pulls out one volume, dropping the newspaper clippings back into the box. Dawn opens the cover. "Mom signed the inside cover sophomore year," she announces. "'Margolo, you're the sister I never had,'" Dawn reads aloud. She rolls her eyes at me, shutting the yearbook one-handed. "Neighborhood acquaintances my foot!" 

"You know..." I begin thoughtfully, taking a couple steps backward. Placing hands at my hips, I look around the attic, absorbing what I see, seeing it properly. "All these boxes over here are taped shut and covered in dust. That box of Aunt Margolo's probably hasn't been opened in thirty years. What's Gran doing up here then? She isn't reminiscing about Aunt Margolo." I walk away from Dawn. Much as I dislike doing so, I walk back to Gran's makeshift sitting room. I notice for the first time a stack of boxes nearby. They aren't taped shut. Instead their lids rest neatly on top. I move closer and run a finger over a lid. It isn't so dusty. And written in Gran's lettering with a proud, peaking 'A' is the name _Allison_. 

Lifting the lid, I peer into the box. I reach in and pull out a slender book with a worn cardstock cover. _Miss Kingston's School For Girls_ reads the front cover. It's Gran's yearbook from boarding school. I turn the pages carefully. A lot of the photographs are vaguely blurred, the girls' black and white features undefined. I locate Gran in her class photo, standing in the back in her school uniform. She smiles slightly and it's a different smile than the ones I've seen before. It isn't blank. 

"What did you find?" Dawn asks, coming up behind me. 

"My grandmother," I answer, sharing the yearbook with her. "When she was our age. I think she's about sixteen there." 

Dawn reaches into the box and pulls out a yellowed envelope with a slim stack of photographs inside. They're of girls I've never heard of, girls in matching school uniforms, each photograph snapped within the confines of Miss Kingston's. In the last photograph, Gran's on the lawn with four other girls, all with badminton rackets clutched in their hands. Gran's hair is windblown and her smile has a radiance that I've not ever seen. I glance over at the portrait behind the armchair. The same girl, but still, not the same. 

The rest of the box is filled with playbills, mostly from Providence and Smith, a few from New York City. Also, there are torn bits from school newspapers and postcards signed by girls with illegible names. Dawn's moved on by the time I reach the bottom of the box. She's opened her own box, rifling through the contents. 

"Who is Margaret Macintosh?" Dawn asks after a period of silence. 

"Who? Oh, that's my great-grandmother. Gran's mother. Why?" 

"Because this whole box is stuffed with her letters." 

"Really?" I reply, coming over to Dawn. I peer into the box. It's filled with stacks of letters tied tightly together with frayed ribbons. "Gran's mother wrote a lot," I observe, which isn't something I expected. 

"No, no. They're not _from_ her. They're _to_ her. She sent them all back. Look." Dawn holds out a stack of letters she's untied the ribbon on. She shuffles through the stack, all addressed to Margaret Macintosh, all sent from Allison McCracken, all postmarked from Stoneybrook, all with _Return To Sender_ scrawled across the front. 

I furrow my brow and reach for them. "What?" I say, softly. 

"Most of them aren't even opened," Dawn tells me. "I've found a couple that are. I wonder if this Margaret Macintosh is even the one who opened them." 

"Why would she..." I speak to myself. I move the box. Underneath is another filled with ribbon-tied stacks of letters. "There are _hundreds_ of letters," I gasp when I find a third box. 

"This one is five pages of the sentence 'I want to come home'," Dawn informs me, staring down at a letter she's removed from its already open envelope. 

"I don't think you should read her mail," I scold Dawn, even as I remove a letter from another open envelope. I unfold the letter. It's seven pages long. It's dated shortly after my mother's birth. "'Dearest Mother,'" I read aloud. "'Why do you return my letters unopened and why do you not come to the telephone when I call? Things are quickly deteriorating here. The baby is sick again. It's neverending. Ian won't allow the doctor to come any more and the house staff is no help. Everyone laughs at me. I'm tearing out my hair and everyone thinks I am a joke. I am at my wit's end, Mother. If you won't permit me to return home, will you at least come to Stoneybrook? I need you. Please come.' It goes on like that for _seven_ pages." 

"This one is nine pages and it's more of the same," Dawn says, stuffing another letter back into its envelope. 

The next one I open is a four page detailed account of Grandfather choking Gran with his neck-tie, then burning her with a cigarette. I don't share it with Dawn. Instead, I refold it and shove it to the bottom of the box as fast as I can. Why would Gran keep these horrible letters? Does she sit up here and _read_ them? 

"What's the matter?" I ask Dawn when I happen to glance in her direction. Her face has completely drained of color as she stares wide-eyed at a thick, unfolded letter. "What's it say?" 

"Nothing," Dawn replies, hastily, refolding the letter and attempting to shove it back into the envelope vertically. 

"What does it say?" I demand. 

"No. It's nothing. You shouldn't know these things about your grandparents." 

"What does it say, Dawn?" 

"It's...it's really awful, Grace. I don't..." Dawn unfolds the letter again anyway and begins reading in a quivering voice, "'Last night, I was in the bedroom brushing my teeth when Ian came up, drunk on whiskey and reeking of cigarettes, as always. He had a bottle of whiskey in his hand and dropped it on the bed. Then he flew at me and grabbed me around the waist and threw me against the dresser. I still had the toothbrush in my mouth. Ian tossed me onto the bed and tied my wrists to the bedpost with his belt. He ripped off my dress and poured the whiskey over my face. Then he hit me for so long that I forgot he was hitting me until I realized he had started to strangle me. Across the hallway, Fay called for me, but all I could think of was that I couldn't remember what I did to make Ian so mad.'" Dawn stops reading and takes a deep breath. "I don't want to read any farther." 

"Okay," I say in a quiet voice that chokes. I should have listened to Dawn in the first place. I shouldn't have insisted to hear. Gran's words echo in my head, read out in Dawn's cool, quaking voice. Gran's words have lost the urgency of the early letters. Her words are detached like she's making up a story, telling it about someone who doesn't really exist, someone who isn't hurt when the belt digs into her wrists. 

"What are you doing?" 

Dawn and I drop the letters. I spin around, nearly knocking over the boxes, to see Gran framed in the dim-lit arch of the doorway. 

"What are you doing?" Gran shrieks again. 

"We aren't..." my voice falters as Gran sweeps into the attic like a white-clad bat. 

"What are you doing?" she screams as she approaches, her normally rose-tinted cheeks blazing a hot, deep red. "These are my things! My private things! Who gave you permission to be up here?" 

"Mrs. McCracken..." Dawn begins, but loses her nerve. 

"Nosy girls!" Gran screeches at us. "You spoiled brat!" she shouts just for me. "You have to have everything? You think everything should be yours? You're just like you're mother! You can't allow me a single inch of my own life? Get out of my attic! Get out of my house! Get out! Get out! Get out!" 

I stumble backward, knocking over the boxes of letters. The letters spills out onto the floorboards, unopened secrets scattered in yellowing white. Gran grabs my wrist. She grabs it and twists it and holds it behind my back. I sink down, crying out. 

"Mrs. McCracken!" Dawn yelps in alarm. 

Gran jerks my arm up again, nearly breaking my wrist within her grip. She doesn't release my wrist. She pulls me by it, pulls me across the attic. "You ungrateful little witch!" Gran spits with venom. "I fix you lunch. I help with your summer reading because you're too stupid to figure it out yourself. I allow your obnoxious little friends to use my house like a neighborhood playground. And this is how you repay me? Get out of my house!" Gran shrieks at me again and then flings me forward by the wrist. Flings me straight down the stairs. 


	30. Chapter 30

While I fall, somewhere in the attic, Dawn screams. It's a distant sound like an echo tumbling after me. It all blurs together as I fall, gliding over the steps until I hit bottom. Literally hit the bottom of the stairs, smacking my face against the wall before landing on my back. Dawn shrieks again and thunders down the stairs after me. I see her in a sort of misty way. And very far away, over the ringing in my ears, the attic door slams shut. 

"Grace!" Dawn cries when she reaches me. "Are you all right? Oh, my _God_!" 

"I'm fine," I answer in a gasp of breath. Where did that come from? A moment earlier, I felt all the air ripped from my lungs. "I'm fine," I repeat, even though my head pounds and my wrist throbs and every bone in my body screams. I attempt to regain my legs. Dawn offers her hand and helps me up by the arm. 

"I can't..." Dawn begins in a whisper. She bites her lip. "Can you walk? Should I call your mom?" 

"No!" I reply, taking a tentative step. Somehow, my legs still function. "Let's go. Let's go." Now confident in my legs and their willingness to move, I take off, out into the hall and down the front stairs. Dawn pursues me. By the time we cross the street, we're running. We run all the way across the Porter's lawn and in through the foyer, where we encounter Dawn's grandparents, heading outside in their gardening clothes. 

"Oh, my!" exclaims Mr. Porter as we rush past. 

"I thought you had a luncheon!" Dawn bellows as we start up the stairs, still running. 

"Canceled," Mrs. Porter answers. "Poor Lydia Hemphill had a mild heart attack and we - " 

Dawn and I don't hear the rest. We reach the landing and dash straight into Dawn's former bedroom. Dawn locks the door behind us, then turns to me. We stare at each other, breathing deeply, catching ourselves and our breath. Beneath me, my legs begin to shake, finally failing me. I drop back onto the bed, sinking down into the mattress. 

"I don't...I don't know what to say," Dawn admits. 

I don't know what I want to hear. I lower my head into my hands, dumbstruck by the morning. Quickly, I raise my head again to examine my wrist, which suddenly aches fiercely. There's already a light bruise forming, ringing around my wrist. I may have one on my face as well. How will I explain to people? _Oh, those? No big deal. My grandmother just tossed me down a flight of stairs._

My grandmother tossed me down a flight of stairs. 

"I'll get you some ice for that wrist," Dawn offers, starting for the door. 

"Dawn? Don't tell your grandparents. Please?" 

"I won't," she promises and slips out the door. When she returns a couple minutes later, carrying an ice pack, she's brushed her hair out of the braid and washed the eyeliner from her face. 

I take the ice pack and hold it gently against my wrist. 

"I admit, I thought this was all kind of a game," Dawn tells me, sitting on the edge of the dresser. "I mean, it was sort of fun at first, wasn't it? It was like the old days of solving mysteries. No one good ever got seriously hurt. I didn't really think your grandmother was hiding anything sinister up in that attic. I thought, if we were lucky, we'd find some old diaries and photographs. I wasn't expecting those letters and I'm sorry we found them." 

"So am I," I reply, staring down at my wrist. 

"And about your grandmother...I know I kept saying that she's weird, but honest, Grace, I didn't suspect her to be _crazy_!" 

I lift my head. "You think she's crazy?" 

Dawn stares at me, surprised. "Well, yeah. I'm not trying to be mean, but my God, Grace! I've never seen anyone look that furious! I was scared out of my mind! Did you see her face? It didn't even look like her. She looked...kind of evil." Dawn takes a breath. "That was one of the most terrifying moments of my life. And when she threw you...I really thought she might kill you." 

"I've never seen her like that before." 

"Which makes it even scarier. If that's who she really is...and she's so good at pretending to be remote and emotionless..." 

I turn my head away, not wanting to hear Dawn speak the thoughts I am thinking, the thoughts I wish to push away, block out along with the memory of the morning. Who is my grandmother? This morning, she was not anyone I'd ever met before. "Maybe it isn't - " I start, but am interrupted by a knock on the door. Quickly, I shove the ice pack beneath a pillow as Dawn calls out, "Come in!" 

Mrs. Porter steps into the bedroom with a straw hat perched on her head and a pair of gardening gloves poking out of her tan shorts. "Okay, girls, what's going on?" she inquires. 

"Nothing, Granny," Dawn answers, casually. 

Mrs. Porter casts a doubtful look at her granddaughter. "Nothing? The two of you tore into this house like a couple bats out of hell over nothing?" 

"We were racing," Dawn lies. "I won." 

"You did not," I snap, automatically. 

"Were you over at Allison's?" asks Mrs. Porter. "Were you over there when she wasn't home? Allison doesn't appreciate people poking around her house and yard when she's not around. You don't have any business being over there, Dawn, without Allison's permission." 

Dawn's face flushes and I fear mine follows suit. My skin burns like my insides do with the knowledge that I am in the wrong. I shouldn't have broken into Gran's house. I shouldn't have gone through her private things. Am I any better off now that I know? Know the things Gran keeps hidden, the memories she dives into late at night in the night silence of her attic, tucked away in a corner meant only for her. Maybe I should know them and maybe I should not. And maybe it wasn't my choice. 

"I'll go over and talk to Allison," Mrs. Porter says, then leaves the room. 

Dawn looks at me with wide eyes, but I'm unconcerned. "Gran won't answer the door," I assure her, removing the ice pack from underneath the pillow. "And what's she going to say if she does?" I set the ice pack on my bare knees and the chill isn't so unfriendly. I watch my wrist curiously, sadly, turning it slightly so that it aches. I would like to cry and wish I could. 

Dawn goes to the window and peeks through the curtains. "Granny's talking to Pop-Pop," she reports. 

"I'm going home," I announce, standing and the ice pack falls to the floor. I pick it up again. 

"I'll come over." Dawn offers, leaving the window. 

"Oh..." I say, hesitantly. My parents are home. When I left the house, Mom was in the shower. I haven't seen her since the night we returned from New York. She's avoiding me or I'm avoiding her. Probably, it's mutual. Right now, Mom's likely seated behind her desk, typing at her computer. What happens if I parade Dawn straight past? Dawn, who I am forbidden to see without expressed reason. "Yes. Come over." I'll see. 

Mrs. Porter hasn't moved anywhere near Gran's house by the time Dawn and I come outside. She's still standing at the side of the house, where Mr. Porter prunes the ivy that runs along the low fence separating the Porter's front yard from the Gateses. We wave to the Porters and hurriedly walk down the street to the corner where I parked my Corvette. 

I drive home one-handed as best as I can, even though Dawn offers to drive instead. The last time I drove with Dawn, she smashed into a tree. She's lucky to even be allowed in my passenger seat. 

I take a deep breath as I pull into the garage. The breath lasts as I turn off the ignition. I check my wrist and the bruise that darkens there. Then I tilt the rearview mirror to scrutinize my reflection. The side of my face where I hit the wall isn't swelling. A bruise hasn't spread to the surface and my eye hasn't blackened. "Don't say anything to my parents," I request of Dawn. 

"Isn't this something they should know?" 

"It isn't." 

"I won't say anything then." 

We climb out of the Corvette and enter the house through the kitchen. I pour a glass of lemonade for Dawn and open a pineapple soda for myself and while doing so, I listen for my parents. I expect my mother to come in and make a scene, but she does not. I wipe up some lemonade I spilt, then lead Dawn out of the kitchen and through the living room. As we cross the room, I spy my parents in their office, Dad tapping a pen against his nose, Mom flipping through her rolodex. She's wearing her glasses, the ones with the purple frames and from them dangle their plum and gold chain. Mom's face is scrunched and her mouth turned oddly as she searches for the desired name and number. She doesn't notice me when I stop in the doorway, not until Dad greets me. 

"Good afternoon, Grace," Mom says to me, the first words in two days. It takes her a moment to recognize Dawn, a step behind me. "Oh," she says, flatly, hand frozen on the rolodex. "You're the Porter girl," she continues, then reaches up and pulls the glasses off her face, lowering them to her chest, clutching their arms. 

"Schafer," I correct and switch my focus to Dad. "Dad, I don't think you've met Dawn. She's from California. Mary Anne is her stepsister." 

Dad rises from the desk chair and extends his hand over the desk. "It's nice to meet you, Dawn," he says when Dawn comes forward to take it. "Are you visiting Stoneybrook for the whole summer?" 

"I guess," she replies. 

Behind her desk, Mom appears confused. She tries to mask it by putting on a warm and friendly smile, but she's also slightly squinting, which somewhat mars the effect. "It's lovely to see you again, Dawn," Mom forces herself to lie. "What are you girls up to today?" 

"Nothing," Dawn and I say together, hurriedly. 

Dad looks at us, bemused, while Mom fights to keep her smile. 

"We're going upstairs," I tell my parents. 

"Have fun," Dad responds and turns back to his work. 

Mom says nothing, watching us walk away. 

When Dawn and I enter my bedroom, shutting the door behind us, Dawn asks me, "Is your mom still mad about the car accident?" 

"What?" I reply, pulling off my tennis shoes. "No, no. She's just...we haven't been getting along, that's all." 

"Oh, I thought it was me," Dawn says, sounding relieved, and flops down on the window seat. 

I carry the tennis shoes into the closet without giving Dawn any lies of reassurance. I slip on a pair of white flip-flops, then come out again. I sit down on the bed and cradle my wrist in the other hand. "How am I going to hide this?" I ask Dawn. The wrist hurts the most when I look at it. Self-consciously, I touch my chest, where the fading bruise from the car accident hides beneath my t-shirt. I am all bruised up. 

"Maybe you shouldn't hide it," Dawn suggests from the window seat, where she sits with her legs crossed at the ankles. 

"I can't tell my parents!" I protest. "Gran and Mom are at each other's throats enough as it is! Imagine if Gran attempting to break my neck entered into the equation!" 

"Do you really think your grandmother wanted to break your neck?" 

"What? No! I don't know!" 

"Because if she was trying to, then you should tell your parents. She shouldn't be allowed around you. If she's crazy - " 

"Gran isn't crazy!" 

"Why are you shouting at me?" 

"I'm not! I'm - " I catch up with my temper. "I'm sorry," I say with a well-deserved breath. I take another. Breathe in. "My grandmother isn't crazy. She's...you heard what she wrote to her mother. You know...you know what went on in that house. She was married to my grandfather for thirty years. Thirty years of that would make anyone...anyone like she is. Like she can be." 

"Emotionally dead?" 

"My grandmother isn't emotionally dead." 

"She seems to be. Sometimes." 

I remember what my mother told me at Argo's, how Grandfather dangled Gran over the staircase railing, held her upside down and how she used to scream and then one day, she stopped. And I remember the tone of Gran's letters to her own mother, how in the beginning, they were frantic and pleading, desperation written in ink, and as the years went by, how her tone dulled, how Gran lost that desperation. Her mother didn't open those letters. She must have known what they said. And she didn't care. And it wasn't enough to simply toss them away, she wanted Gran to know she didn't read them, didn't want them. Gran was disposable like the letters. 

"Can you blame her?" I say to Dawn and rise from the bed. I cross to the dresser and remove the lid from my jewelry box. I poke through the bracelets. I can hide my bruise. 

"No. Not really. After years and years of torture, she had to find some way to cope," answers Dawn. "But I don't excuse her either. I guess we shouldn't have been up there, reading her personal papers, but that didn't give her a right to say what she said. And it didn't give her a right to try to hurt you. Maybe she wasn't trying to break your neck, but she _was_ trying to hurt you. That was a mean form of punishment." 

"My grandfather used to throw her down the stairs. The front stairs. My mother told me." 

"So, she learned it from him," Dawn says and pushes up off the window seat. She joins me at the dresser. 

"I don't think she knew what she was doing. I think she just did it," I tell Dawn. "I think it's kind of like when the Bernsteins get into those shouting matches. I don't think they realize how they sound. I don't think they even notice when anyone else is around. Sometimes we act in ways that aren't ourselves." 

"As far as I know, neither of the Bernsteins has shoved the other down a flight of stairs." 

"No, but I once saw Mrs. Bernstein throw a bagel at Mr. Bernstein." 

Dawn laughs. She picks up a bracelet from the top of the box. It's the one I bought in Fiji, the spiraled bracelet in purple-colored beads. "This is different," Dawn comments. 

"I bought it in Fiji. Here, you should have it." 

"That's okay." 

"No," I insist, taking her wrist and wrapping the wire around it. "I bought one for all my friends." 

"Thank you," Dawn says without further protest. She holds out her arm to admire the bracelet. "Thanks," she says again. She's quiet for a moment, staring at her wrist. "I still think Mrs. McCracken threw you on purpose." 

"Maybe I don't want to think that my grandmother could do that," I respond and select a large yellow bangle from the jewelry box. I slide it onto my wrist. It's wider than the bruise. 

"Fair enough," Dawn says and moves back toward the window. 

"What's that?" I ask when she turns her back on me. There's a yellowed paper peeking out of the pocket of her camouflage shorts. 

"Huh?" Dawn says, glancing over her shoulder. She looks down at her shorts. "Oh, that. I took that from the attic." 

My jaw drops in disbelief. "You stole one of the letters!" I cry. It's all I can do to not lunge for her, tear the letter from her pocket, and rip it into shreds. I don't want those words in my house. "Why would you take one of those vile things?" I demand. 

"Because it's the only one that wasn't addressed to Margaret Macintosh." 

"Well, I don't want to read it. I don't want to know anything else." 

"Okay." 

The letter remains in Dawn's back pocket as she slides onto the window seat. I almost ask to see the letter. I stop myself. I've learned too much, gone too far. Look at what my curiosity's gotten me. A bruised wrist and a weighted heart. I've done enough damage to myself for the day. 

The telephone rings and I hold my breath. Dawn's eyebrows shoot up. "Do you think..." she begins and goes slightly pale. 

"Answer it." 

"Me?" Dawn cries. 

"If it's Gran, I don't want to talk to her!" 

Reluctantly, Dawn rises from her seat and crosses to the table where the phone waits and rings. Slowly, she picks up the receiver. "Hello?" she says, softly. "Oh. No...This is Dawn...Hey, Julie..." Dawn turns her body to face me and I shake my head furiously. "No, Grace is downstairs helping her dad with something," Dawn lies for me. "Oh, yeah?...I'll tell her then...yeah? Okay, thanks...Bye." Dawn replaces the receiver on its cradle. 

"What was that about?" I ask. 

"Julie invited you to another barbecue at her house. Those Sterns sure like to grill dead cows! I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Anyway, it's tomorrow evening. She said I could come, too," Dawn tells me and then waits a moment before speaking again. "I don't think Julie cares for me too much." 

"Why do you say that?" 

"A feeling I get. I don't think she'd have invited me had I not answered the phone." 

I wave my hand, dismissing her words. "It's just the Mary Anne thing. It isn't personal." 

"Yeah..." Dawn sighs. 

Dawn leaves a couple hours later when Sharon comes for her and leans on the horn in the driveway. She promises not to tell anyone about the morning's events, about what my grandmother did to me, and even though I don't know her so well, or for so long, I believe her. 

After Dawn has gone, I sit at the window, watching the Hill kids ride their bikes in the street while spinning the yellow bracelet around my wrist and thinking about my grandmother. There's a sharp knock on the door and I know it's my mother. 

"Come in," I call out. 

The door opens and Mom enters the room. Her glasses still swing from the chain around her neck and I wonder how clearly she can see me. "What are you doing?" she asks. 

I shrug. "Sitting." 

Mom places her hands at her hips. "That's not what I mean, Grace Blume. What are you doing? I thought I told you not to hang around with that girl?" 

"You didn't give me a reason." 

"I'm your mother. I don't need to give you a reason," Mom scoffs. 

"I'd like one." 

"Well, I don't have one to give." 

"So, what, you're just blindly forbidding me to see Dawn? How does that make any sense, Mother?" I ask and my voice rises with the last words. "Does this have something to do with Sharon and Aunt Margolo?" 

"No!" 

I slide frontways on the window seat, so that I fully face my mother. I plant my feet firmly on the floor as I regard her. "Then what is your reason?" I demand. "What is it?" 

Mom stares at me, her mouth in a thin, tight line. As I look at her, I think of Gran's letters and the things she wrote about my mother. It is hard to imagine my mother as a little child, calling out for Gran in the nighttime. And I wonder at all my mother knows, all the things she saw and heard. I soften a bit toward her when I think of where she came from. 

"I suppose I don't have a reason," Mom finally answers. "It's your choice to be friends with Dawn. I won't stop you." Mom turns and heads for the open door. 

"Thank you for the ring," I say to her retreating back. 

Mom turns again, partially, to face me. She nods without comment and pulls the door shut behind her. 

I leave the window seat and return to the jewelry box atop my dresser. I pull out the middle drawer and remove the garnet ring. I roll it between my fingers, admiring the silver band and the checker-cut stone. An inscription is scratched inside the band and I run my finger over it. _For Fay_. This is what Gran has left my mother with, a heart full of bitterness and a garnet ring. _For Fay_. 

I return the garnet ring to the jewelry box and slide the drawer shut again. I go to my bed and sit there, in the center, resting my chin on my knee. I stare awhile at the blank television screen, then shift my gaze to the window. It's clear outside, the sun beating down in the blue sky. A beautiful day. I sigh and stay there, watching. 

In time, the telephone rings. I don't move to answer it. I remain where I am, frozen, hearing the sharp rings until the machine clicks on. My message plays and then Dawn's voice comes: "Are you screening? Pick up!" 

"What?" I ask when I raise the receiver. 

"Oh, hey," Dawn says. "I just talked to Granny. She never spoke to your grandmother. Mrs. McCracken pretended not to be home." 

"I figured." 

"Yeah..." 

"Is that all?" 

"Oh, yeah..." Dawn replies and then hangs on the line, breathing into the receiver. "Okay. Granny told me not to say anything to you. But I'm going to. Granny warned me not to cross your grandmother." 

"Oh." 

"Yeah," Dawn says again and hangs on the line in silence again. "Well, I'll talk to you tomorrow, I guess. Bye." 

We hang up and I resume my sitting. Sitting and not doing anything. Dad comes up eventually to ask how I am and what I'm doing and would I like Chinese food for dinner. I shrug and Dad retreats, not knowing what to do about me. It's easier to walk away. I remain awhile longer on the bed, waiting for something to come to me, then I rise and go to my desk. I flip on the lamp and take out my notebook. I begin work on my lists. I've just made a page for Mrs. Porter when the telephone rings once more. I pause in my writing, pen hovering over the half-written sentence _has never thrown_, and wait for the answering machine. It clicks on finally and the voice I've been avoiding springs into the air. 

"Grace, dear," Gran's voice announces to my bedroom. "I am so sorry about this morning. My behavior was completely inexcusable. You caught me off-guard and I never expected to find you in that attic. I am very embarrassed, Grace, for the way I acted and for the things I said. Under normal circumstances, I would never - " 

I turn off the machine, silencing Gran. 


	31. Chapter 31

Dawn floats atop the raft in my swimming pool on Monday afternoon, flat on her back, her still-wet blonde hair dangling over the edge into the water. She wears a cantaloupe-colored bikini covered in red hibiscus flowers. Dawn must have arrived in Stoneybrook with a trunk full of swimsuits. She never appears in the same suit twice. I, myself, am lounged on a chaise pulled far beneath the patio covering, well out of the direct reach of the sun's rays. I swam over an hour already and now I sit, waiting for Dawn to decide the sun has done enough damage to her skin for the day. 

The sliding glass door slides open behind me and I assume it's Marta, the housekeeper, but instead my mother steps through, still dressed in her work clothes - today, a heather gray dress with thick shoulder pads and a knotted black belt cinched around her middle. 

"What are you doing home?" I demand, turned in my chair. I glance at the clock that hangs on the patio. It's only half-past four. 

"Hal and I thought we'd come home early," Mom replies and then looks over at the pool and Dawn. "What happened to all your other friends?" she asks me. 

"Hey, Mrs. Blume!" Dawn calls from the raft. 

Mom raises her hand to wave. "Hello," she returns without any mustered enthusiasm. She drops her hand and looks back to me. "Hal and I thought we'd take you to dinner in Stamford. Where would you like to eat?" 

"I have plans." 

Mom regards me for a moment. "You've had all day to sit around the swimming pool," she tells me. "You shouldn't stay in the sun so long, not with your complexion. Come now. We haven't been out to dinner as a family in ages. Get dressed. You can't wear that bathing suit to a restaurant." 

I cross my legs, hiding my bruised wrist beneath my thigh. It's strange to hear Mom refer to us as a family - her, Dad, and I. Sometimes, I don't think of us as that. My parents are my parents and I am their daughter. Those are our labels and not always do they seem to mean much of anything. "No," I answer. "I told you, I have plans. I'm going to a barbecue at the Sterns. Maybe you should have thought of this yesterday. You can't expect me to be at your beck and call, Mother." 

Mom stares at me. "I don't know what's gotten into you," she hisses. Then she glances at Dawn and back to me. "But I can guess." Mom vanishes back inside the house. 

In the pool, Dawn paddles the raft to the steps. She rolls off the raft and comes out of the pool, dripping over to me. "What was that all about?" she inquires, toweling off her hair. 

"It wasn't anything." 

When I've showered and dressed, Dawn's still in her bikini, stretched out on the carpet of my bedroom, flipping through the latest Fiona Fee catalogue. "All this lingerie is kind of disgusting," she informs me. 

"That disgusting lingerie paid for the carpet you've gotten soaking wet." 

"I'm completely dry," Dawn replies. "And you sound like someone's fussy mother." 

"Hm," I snort and step over her, going to the mirror to check my hair one more time. I've pulled it back into a french braid. I play with its end while gazing at my reflection in the mirror. "Excuse me," I say to Dawn and head for the door, suddenly, without much warning even to myself. I head downstairs, where I see my mother pacing the living room in her work clothes. Dad's in the office with the french doors closed, talking on the telephone. I take the stairs noisily, so Mom knows I'm coming. She is aware of me, but doesn't stop her pacing. 

"Are you and Dad still going out to dinner?" I ask her. 

"I don't know," Mom answers, grouchily. "Probably not. He's on the phone with Alla." 

"Do you want to come to the barbecue?" I ask her. 

Mom quits pacing. She stands motionless for me. "What am I going to do at a barbecue?" she wants to know. 

"Probably eat barbecue," I reply, sassily. We are never on the same page, Mom and I. 

"I doubt I belong at a barbecue." 

"You can change," I tell her. I've seen her at barbecues before, at the Masons and at the Wallingfords. Once, when Aunt Corinne and Uncle Cullen moved into the house on Green House Drive, we went to a barbecue there. The macaroni salad ended up all over the grass and I was too young to now recall who threw it. "The Sterns won't care if you come. Fifty random people could happen along and join the party and the Sterns wouldn't care." 

"I don't care to go, Grace," Mom says, bending over to grab a fallen coaster off the floor. "I don't..." and then says nothing more, just sets the coaster back onto the coffee table, so I do not know if that was a trailing statement or a statement plain and simple. 

"Fine," I say, shortly, and start back up the stairs. I turn on the third step. "And you need to stop worrying over Alla so much." 

The barbecue doesn't start until after six because the Bernsteins don't arrive home from work until after six and, obviously, a party doesn't truly start until the Bernsteins arrive. I turn my Corvette around the corner of Rosedale Road at twenty after six, in time to see the Bernsteins crossing the street in a line, Mrs. Bernstein in the middle with Mr. Bernstein and Emily on either side of her. The Bernsteins march resolutely across the street, each carrying a covered bowl. 

"Were we supposed to bring something?" Dawn asks. 

I shrug as the Corvette purrs to a halt at the Sterns front curb. I try to hurry Dawn out of the car and up the drive, so we don't get stuck walking in with the Bernsteins, but Dawn is stubbornly slow. She takes her time putting away her sunglasses, then digging through her purse for a hair band that she decides not to want anyway. By the time we reach the end of the drive, the Bernsteins meet us there, clutching their bowls, Mrs. Bernstein looking flustered and Mr. Bernstein watching the ground. 

"Hello!" Emily sings out, appearing much cheerier than the last time I saw her. 

"Hello," I reply, following behind her parents to the Sterns front door. 

"Hey," Dawn says. "What do you have there?" 

"Potato salad," Emily answers. 

"Oooh!" Dawn exclaims. "I love potato salad! Is it red potato salad? Did you make it?" 

"Are you kidding?" Emily demands. "I don't cook!" 

The Bernsteins don't knock at the Sterns house just like the Sterns don't knock at the Bernsteins. Emily squeezes past her parents and in the foyer, calls out, "Hello, Sterns!" before barging the rest of the way in. Dawn and I follow the Bernsteins through the house and out into the backyard. Mr. Stern and Rachel stand at the grill while Mrs. Stern's at the other end of the patio, holding a vegetable platter in her hands while attempting to kick open the ice chest with her right foot. I'm surprised to see Mrs. McGill nearby, holding a diet soda in her hand, sunken into the lawn in her high heels. She hasn't changed out of her work clothes, a forest green button-up blouse tucked into a black A-line skirt. She works one of her heels out of the lawn with her soda can held above her head. 

"Heads up!" Julie shouts and a water balloon splatters at my feet. 

Dawn and I shriek and jump back. I look up to see Julie and Stacey crouched inside Julie's old tree house, peeking over the wooden railing. Julie has a red balloon in her hand, so full that it may burst at the slightest jostle. 

"Not on the patio!" Mrs. Stern shouts at Julie. 

"This is war!" Julie shouts back and lobs the red balloon high into the air. It hits the apple tree and bursts. 

Paul, Pete, and Ross drop from the apple tree's branches, where they'd gone unnoticed by myself and Dawn. They pick up their arsenal of water balloons, which is in a neon green laundry basket, and rush forward at the tree house, whooping and shrieking. Paul Stern, I notice, is wearing Julie's pale pink unicorn t-shirt, the one with the glittered horn, as well as her jean shorts, which I recognize by the pink rhinestones on the front pockets. 

Paul, Pete, and Ross send a short flurry of balloons sailing through the air. Julie and Stacey duck out of the way. Mrs. McGill, free from the lawn, disappears inside the house. 

"What are they doing?" I ask Mrs. Stern, even though, really, I know I don't want to hear the answer. 

"Battling over who get the first hamburgers, of course," Mrs. Stern answers in her stuffy voice. "Marian, did you bring the dip?" 

Julie's head pops up again. "New recruits!" she yells and is promptly smacked in the face with a yellow balloon that doesn't burst. "Jackasses!" she screams down at the boys. "You didn't fill them up enough!" She hurls a balloon at the boys, but Julie has a terrible arm and hits a patio pillar instead. "Get up here now!" Julie calls down to us. 

Stacey's head appears. "Hurry!" 

Stacey has definitely lost her mind. 

"You're both nuts!" exclaims Emily, whose chestnut hair is perfectly curled and held back neatly with a white headband. Her khaki shorts and polo shirt are smartly pressed. 

I sit down in a patio chair and cross my legs, defiantly. 

"Ah, sticks in the mud!" mutters Dawn, lifting her teal tank top over her head in a single fluid motion. Behind her, Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein's eyes bug out until they realize she's wearing a bikini top underneath. Dawn races out onto the lawn. 

"You don't even eat hamburgers!" I yell after her. 

"She doesn't eat hamburgers?" repeats Mrs. Stern, puzzled, balancing the vegetable platter on one hand while digging through the ice chest with the other. 

"She doesn't eat meat." 

"She doesn't eat meat!" cries Mr. Bernstein, aghast, as if someone might as well have told him that leprechauns are invading Stoneybrook as we speak. At least he didn't stutter. 

"She's from California." 

Vegetarianism must be a foreign concept to Mr. Bernstein, who continues to stare incredulously at me until Mrs. Bernstein orders him to put the dip on the table along with the vegetable platter that still balances precariously on Mrs. Stern's hand. Then, before I see it coming, Mrs. Bernstein sends Emily and I off to the kitchen to fetch silverware and the deviled eggs. Emily grumbles most of the way into the kitchen and then upon returning to the patio, expertly ducks out of her mother's sight by hiding behind her father at the picnic table. Mr. Bernstein is attempting to arrange the paper plates, napkins, cups, and plastic silverware in even stacks and rows, something that I will not even comment on. 

Out in the yard, Paul and Pete rush by with the garden hose. 

"Mo-o-o-om!" Julie shrieks just before she's blasted in the face. In seconds, the entire tree house is drenched. 

"You look like drowned rats," I inform Julie, Dawn, and Stacey after Mrs. Bernstein unceremoniously cancels the war after Paul points the garden hose in her direction. 

"I...regret this," Stacey replies, blonde hair plastered against her face. 

Julie shakes off like a dog, whipping Dawn in the face with her ponytail. "Let's go to my room and get some dry clothes," she says, then leads Stacey and Dawn into the house, dripping wet all through it, no doubt. 

Emily and I wait for them at the picnic table. We've already filled our plates, both of us skipping the hamburgers. At the picnic table on the patio, the adults and Rachel have also filled their plates and begun eating. Mrs. McGill returned from hiding and now is seated across from Mrs. Stern, on the same side as Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein. Mr. Bernstein has scooted as far from Mrs. McGill as possible, so that he's practically seated in Mrs. Bernstein's lap. Is he afraid Mrs. McGill might try to hold his hand? 

I decide not to ask Emily. 

"Your bruise is nearly gone," observes Emily and my head whips toward her so quickly it aches. Then I see she points at my chest. I touch the fading bruise there. Of course. She doesn't know about my wrist. I touch my wrist next, where I've placed a black plastic bracelet with white polka-dots. It matches my blouse, black with white polka-dots and ruffles along the sleeves and neckline. My outsides are always exact and polished. 

"Yes," I answer Emily and take a swig of grape soda with the unbruised hand, keeping the other in my lap. 

Emily leans forward. "My mother won't let me out of her sight," she whispers. "She hasn't gotten over my lying to her. She has a short temper, but usually, she doesn't stay mad this long. It's because my dumb grandparents are still calling to tell her that - " 

The others appear and Emily leans back, clamming up. 

"Welcome to the barbecue, Miss Blume," Julie greets me, sliding into place beside Emily. 

I roll my eyes at her. 

Julie smiles prettily and pops an olive into her mouth. 

"Julie..." I begin. "I need to know..._why_, in the name of all that's sane and logical, is Paul wearing your clothes?" 

"Because I told him he wouldn't," Julie replies, nonchalantly. She slides olives onto her fingertips and admires her hand. "Although...I don't ever wear that shirt, you know." 

I roll my eyes again. I've _seen_ Julie in that t-shirt. 

"Thank you for inviting me," Dawn says to Julie, as she lifts a deviled egg to her mouth. She has the purple and silver spiral bracelet coiled around her right wrist. It doesn't much matter that it clashes with her teal tank top. 

Julie's waggling her olive fingers in Emily face and Emily dives forward, biting one off Julie's pointer finger. "Gross," Julie laughs and then says, absently to Dawn, "Sure. No problem." She has on her spiral bracelet, too. There are things to like about Julie. 

"Did you have fun in New York?" Dawn asks Stacey, who is seated beside me. 

Stacey doesn't glance up from the potato salad she picks at with her fork. "Not really," she mumbles. Julie's yellow Helena, Montana t-shirt hangs too large on her. Finally, Stacey casts a look at Dawn. "How did you know I was in New York?" 

"Grace told me." 

"Oh," Stacey replies and takes a dainty bite of her hamburger. 

I glance across the table at Emily and Julie, who are wrapped up in themselves and their own conversation, and then at Dawn, on Julie's other side, who is preoccupied for the moment watching the adult table with interest, where Paul Stern is attempting to sit on Mrs. Bernstein's lap. 

I lean closer to Stacey. "I didn't have much fun either," I admit to her in a whisper. 

"We expect too much, I guess," Stacey whispers back, her blue eyes turned down sadly. "I can't believe my mother is here," she confides in another whisper. "She ran into Mrs. Stern at the A&P. I wish she would have said 'no'. We got into an argument last night when I got home because I called all weekend and she never answered the phone. Now it's like she's following me around!" Stacey pauses and shifts her eyes toward the other side of the table. Emily and Julie are ignoring us, still in their own conversation and Dawn's concentrating on spearing cucumber slices with her fork, although she may be trying to listen. "I mean, I know Mom's probably lonely now that she and Mrs. Pike aren't friends. She doesn't really have anyone. She needs friends, but Mrs. Stern and Mrs. Bernstein?" Stacey scrunches up her face. 

A carrot stick hits my ear. 

"What are you whispering about over there?" Emily demands. 

I throw the carrot stick back at her. "Don't throw things at me, Emily." 

"Well, don't whisper about me!" 

"No one's whispering about you, paranoid." 

"Fighting over me, darling?" comes Paul's voice behind me. "There is enough Paul for all." 

I drop my fork. Suddenly, I've lost my appetite. I push away my plate and Paul reaches for it after sitting down beside Stacey. Pete and Ross slide in at the ends of the picnic table. Both have their second hamburgers in their hands. Pickles are slipping out of Pete's. One falls on his damp t-shirt and he picks it off and pops it into his mouth. 

"It's too bad Mary Anne couldn't be here," Pete says, trying to sound casual, but succeeding only in sounding pathetic. 

"She'll be back tonight," Stacey answers and checks her watch. "Her and her dad's plane should land in another hour." 

"No, it won't," argues Paul. 

Stacey turns to Paul. "Pardon?" 

"_Pardon_?" Paul mimics in a high voice. 

"Mary Anne's on the patio," Ross says before taking an enormous bite of hamburger. Mustard and ketchup dribble onto the table. 

"What are you talking about?" I respond, as we all turn our attention to the patio. My breath catches in my throat. Mary Anne is, indeed, on the patio, standing at the table between Mr. and Mrs. Stern. She isn't looking at us, but when she finally does, she doesn't appear at all surprised to see Dawn sandwiched between Julie and Pete. She hugs Mrs. McGill before starting toward us. 

"Mary Anne!" Stacey calls out, rising quickly from the picnic table and hurrying to meet Mary Anne halfway. Stacey and Mary Anne embrace briefly and we hear Mary Anne ask, "What are you wearing?" 

"Hi, Mary Anne!" Emily chirps when Mary Anne comes nearer to the table and everyone echoes the greeting. Everyone except Dawn, who looks a bit pale and sick. 

"What are you doing here?" Julie asks, bluntly. 

Mary Anne flushes slightly. "Oh...Dad's final meeting ended early, so we caught a different flight. Sharon told me that everyone was gathering over here, so I had her drive me over. I hope that's all right." Mary Anne glances at Dawn, then averts her eyes quickly. 

"No problem," Julie tells her, rising from the table. "I'll get you a plate. Dad! Are there any hamburgers left? Or did Paul and the piglet posse inhale them all?" 

Paul begins snorting and oinking in Stacey's ear. Stacey likes pigs. She should appreciate the impression. 

"Good evening, Dawn," Mary Anne says, stiffly. 

"Hey, Mary Anne," answers Dawn. 

"Are you having fun with my friends?" 

Dawn's mouth opens slightly, but no words escape. 

"Oh, honestly!" exclaims Emily, throwing down her napkin. "This is enough!" She rises from the table just as Julie returns with a filled plate for Mary Anne. "We're going to your room," Emily informs Julie, then looks from Dawn to Mary Anne. "We're ending this dumbness once and for all. The two of you aren't ruining everyone's summer!" Emily stalks toward the house, just assuming we'll all follow. 

"I'll guard your food, Mary Anne," Pete offers, taking the plate from Julie while casting a hopeful look at Mary Anne. 

Mary Anne ignores him, but doesn't move either. Dawn is the first to rise from the table. She follows Emily with Julie falling into step beside her. I go after them, partially against my better judgment. On the patio, Julie says to the adults, "We're holding an important meeting in my room," before slipping through the sliding glass door. Emily and Julie are already seated together on Julie's bed when I enter the bedroom. Dawn leans awkwardly against the dresser until I toss aside the pile of scrubs and books on geriatric care that clutter Rachel's bed. We sit on Rachel's daybed, Dawn folding her legs indian-style and combing her fingers nervously through her damp hair. Stacey and Mary Anne enter the room, pausing in the doorway momentarily, scanning the room for a place for them to be together. Finally, they decide on the floor, making themselves lower than the rest of us. 

"This is an intervention," Emily announces, importantly, struggling to sit a bit higher. "I think we're all sick of listening to all this bickering and whining. This has become ridiculous. Neither of you can even tell us _why_ you're fighting. As far as I'm concerned, that indicates that you're fighting over something completely worthless and it's time to move on. I'm not spending my summer playing the referee and I'm not spending my summer worrying over whether Mary Anne's going to be here and whether Dawn's going to be there." Emily waits for someone else to speak and when no one does, says, "Mary Anne? Is there something you'd like to say to Dawn?" 

"Yes," Mary Anne replies with a frown, not looking at Dawn. "I want to know why Dawn couldn't find her own friends." 

I resist the urge to roll my eyes, while Stacey gives Dawn a look that indicates that she rather wonders the same thing. 

"You're being silly, Mary Anne," I inform her. 

"Yeah," Dawn agrees. "Don't you know Grace's grandmother made her hang out with me?" 

"Are you mocking me?" demands Mary Anne. 

"No!" 

"Stop it!" Emily cries. "It doesn't matter what Grace's looney grandma did or did not make her do. You're just finding excuses to argue." Emily takes a heavy breath and turns to Mary Anne. "Mary Anne, no one has chosen Dawn over you. And you shouldn't ask us to choose. It isn't fair." 

"If you ask me to choose, I'm choosing Dawn just because you made me choose," interjects Julie. 

"Oh, you're the helpful one!" Emily tells Julie with a glare. 

"I thought this was the circle of honesty or something!" 

"Well, you're in the pit of stupidity then. Now, Mary Anne - " 

"I don't think it's right to gang up on Mary Anne," Stacey interrupts. 

Emily looks surprised. "We're not ganging up on Mary Anne," she protests. She locks her eyes with Mary Anne's. "Mary Anne, I'm not trying to gang up on you. I just think you act a lot angrier than Dawn and that whatever the problem is between the two of you, it's a much bigger deal to you." Emily pauses and tugs on the collar of her white polo shirt, drifting in thought. "Grace? Is there anything you'd like to add?" she finally asks. 

"Not really," I say, even though I find Emily really annoying when she acts like this and I'd like to tell her so. 

Emily raises her eyebrows at Stacey, who only shrugs and pulls at Julie's shag carpeting. 

Emily waits awhile longer, waits for anyone else to speak their thoughts, but instead we remain silent. I spin the polka-dot bracelet around my bruised wrist. Maybe I'm very selfish, a very selfish bad friend, but I don't really care if Dawn and Mary Anne kiss and make up. Right this moment or ever. 

"I know you're only stepsisters," Emily finally speaks, "but if I had a sister, I wouldn't want to bicker all the time with her." 

Silence settles. 

"I have some things I'd like to say to Mary Anne in private," Dawn says. 

Everyone looks at Mary Anne. Mary Anne pulls at the end of a piece of hair, glancing over for Stacey's reaction. Stacey shrugs and then nods. Mary Anne struggles to her feet, brushing off the backside of her jean skirt. "Fine," she says, tightly and goes out into the hall. Dawn follows her and as soon as Dawn disappears, we hear the door to the bathroom shut at the end of the hall. Dawn or Mary Anne turn on the faucets. 

"You did kind of gang up on Mary Anne," Stacey informs Emily. 

"She's acting dumb," Emily replies. 

"She is," I agree. 

"We all know you're on Dawn's side," Stacey snaps. 

"At least it's the rational side." 

"I'm telling you, Dawn's trouble." 

I roll my eyes. 

Emily folds her hands primly in her lap. "Stacey, do you feel a need for Dawn to be the troublemaker?" 

"Gah! Shut up, Emily!" I exclaim and hurl Rachel's stuffed kangaroo at her. 

"I'd like to live in a hammock," Julie announces out of the blue. 

Stacey stares at Julie like she's sprouted a second head. 

Emily and I don't because we realize exactly what Julie's doing. 

"How much does a hammock cost?" Emily asks Julie. "Do they sell them at Bellair's?" 

Dawn reappears in the doorway with Mary Anne behind her. "We talked," Dawn tells us and leaves it at that. 

"We can go back to the barbecue now," Mary Anne adds. 

That was too easy. I nudge Dawn as we walk through the Sterns living room. "Well?" I whisper. 

Dawn cocks an eyebrow at me. "It's private," she says. 

"Are you serious?" I hiss. After everything she knows about _me_? 

Dawn nods and slides ahead of me onto the patio. We're just in time to see Paul drop an ice cube down the back of Mrs. Bernstein's shirt. Mrs. Bernstein leaps off the bench, wailing, "Will you leave me alone?" in her crankiest voice while attempting to reach down the back of her shirt. 

At the picnic table, Pete Black still waits with Mary Anne's plate, seated on the tabletop, holding the plate in his lap. Mary Anne takes the plate with a mumbled "thanks" and takes a seat on the side opposite him. Stacey slides in beside Mary Anne, popping open a fresh can of diet soda. Unfazed, Pete moves around the table, taking a seat on Mary Anne's other side. Mary Anne pretends not to see him and then Emily comes along and with great effort, squeezes between them. 

Emily and Julie keep up the bulk of the conversation while the rest of us sit uncomfortably. Underneath the table, I continue to spin the polka-dot bracelet around my wrist. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be home either. I wonder when things came down to this. I cannot be here or there. Nowhere is for me. I look from Stacey to Dawn to Mary Anne. Everything was simpler before Dawn. There wasn't an awkwardness, a strain between us all. I think I blame Mary Anne. I glance across the table at her, Mary Anne eating warm potato salad, listening to Emily and Julie's nonsensical chit-chat, her dark hair framing her face, hanging down over her shoulders. I don't want to blame her. I don't want to blame anyone. I just want everything to _stop_. 

And I realize I don't want Dawn and Mary Anne to become like Mom and Aunt Corinne. 

There are all these things I don't want. Where are all the things I want? 

Pete keeps staring around Emily at Mary Anne until Emily turns to him and declares, "You're making a fool of yourself!" Pete slides off the bench and slinks to where Paul and Ross play tetherball at the side of the house. 

"Finally," Stacey sighs. I remember when Stacey was boy-crazy. Now she's just a boy-hater. 

And then my mother appears on the patio. 


	32. Chapter 32

My mother is a surprise to everyone. She steps through the sliding glass door, still dressed for work in her stiff heather-gray and knotted black belt. Mr. and Mrs. Stern turn in their seats to regard her and across the picnic table, Stacey elbows Mary Anne not so discreetly.

"Fay!" Mrs. Stern breathes, joyously, as if she expected my mother all along.

Mom stands in front of the still-open door, out of place and not belonging. "I let myself in," Mom explains. "I hope that's all right."

"Of course!" Mrs. Stern replies and then shoots her arm into the air, waving at me. "Grace! Your mother's here!"

Not knowing what else to do, I wave back, not understanding my mother's sudden presence.

No one else understands it either and no one else knows what to say.

"Have you eaten?" Mrs. Stern asks Mom.

"Yes."

"Oh? Well, you need something to drink," Mrs. Stern says, rising from the table.

"You should sit down, Fay," says Mrs. Bernstein, scooting down the bench. "Bernard, _move over_."

"No thanks, Marian," Mom says, edgily. "And Jeanie, I really can't stay. I'm just here for Grace."

My mother's come to fetch me? Whatever for? And how did she get here? She doesn't drive. And she couldn't have walked in those shoes. Nevertheless, she waves me over. I pull my long legs out from under the table, saying goodbye to my friends while making my best effort to not reveal my puzzlement or irritation.

"What are you doing here?" I demand, as politely as possible.

Mom stands on the other side of the table from me, back behind Rachel Stern. She answers, "I've come for you," like it's very simple and obvious.

"I'm not ready to leave yet," I protest without agitation. I am not ready to leave yet. I'm not ready to leave my friends. And I'm not ready to bend to my mother again, so effortlessly.

Mom's face is impassive as she regards me, but before she can speak, Mrs. Stern jumps in, coming around to Mom's side with a can of diet soda. "She isn't ready to leave yet, Fay," Mrs. Stern says, cheerfully. "You'll just have to stay awhile. Sit down, we never see you. And here you are. Surely, you drink diet."

Mom's face doesn't change as she accepts the soda can from Mrs. Stern. Everyone waits for her. They wait for my mother to speak and in the silence, I must wonder what they all think of her, in secret and in whispers behind her back. My mother smiles, that radiant, dazzling smile that says she's prepared to pretend everything's wonderful. "Thank you, Jeanie," Mom says, breathlessly through her toothy smile. "Maybe I will stay for a few minutes."

"Come sit over here, Fay," Mrs. McGill offers and begins sliding over on the bench, closer to Mr. Bernstein. In profile, Mr. Bernstein's face registers sheer panic as he pushes ever nearer to Mrs. Bernstein until she is at the edge of the bench, ready to topple off and turns to him to quietly hiss, "You are fine."

"I'll take a chair," Mom replies and drags a plastic chair to the end of the table between Mrs. McGill and Mrs. Stern. She perches on the chair edge and everyone watches as she opens the soda can, carefully, as to not break a nail. I wish she'd thought to change. Even with Mrs. McGill there in her A-line skirt and forest green button-up and Mrs. Bernstein in her ridiculous long sleeves and skirt, my mother sticks out at the head of the table. I wish she didn't. I wish she blended.

"Anyone ready for dessert?" Mrs. Stern asks brightly.

I retreat back to the picnic table and my friends, at a loss. I glance nervously back over my shoulder, just once, to see Mr. Stern and Rachel laughing while Mom smiles, politely. and twists the tab on her soda can.

"What's your mom doing here?" Julie immediately asks upon my return. She treats my mother like an interesting specimen, like the earthworms we dissected in science class.

I shrug and take my seat. "She decided to come over."

"I don't know that she's ever been to my house."

"Then this is a day to mark on your calendar."

"And write about in my diary," Julie adds.

Emily turns to Julie. "She came to my house once," Emily says.

"But I bet she didn't drink your soda."

"We don't have any soda."

Julie opens her mouth to continue the silliness, but Mary Anne breaks in to say, "She's _called_ my house on several occasions. I think she's even left a message or two."

"You're all very amusing," I tell them without hiding the irritation in my voice. Stacey bumps her shoulder against mine, lightly, and I guess it means she understands.

"Who's for a game of tetherball?" Dawn asks, hopping off the bench.

"I'll play you," Mary Anne replies, surprisingly, although her tone is a bit stiff.

Dawn cocks an eyebrow at her. "Oh...okay!" she says and sets off toward the tetherball court. Mary Anne doesn't fall into step beside her. She trails slightly behind.

Emily looks very smug.

The rest of us follow them to the tetherball court, passing by the adults. Mom's angled her chair toward Mrs. McGill and they're deep in conversation, both with their hands folded on top of the table. It occurs to me, as I pass, to wonder if my mother's been drinking. But of course, that's a pointless wonder. When has she not been drinking? Maybe Mrs. McGill smells it on her breath. Maybe Rachel smells it, too, as she leans across her own mother, pouring iced tea into a glass in front of Mom. They may talk about my mother when she's gone, talk about her more than they maybe already do.

On the tetherball court, Dawn's snatched the ball out of Ross Brown's hands and run him off the court. It can't have been too hard. Ross Brown's rather weak and wimpy. He's on the _golf team_, for goodness sake. That isn't even a real sport and I don't understand why Paul and Pete waste so much time on him.

Dawn bats the tetherball gently toward Mary Anne and Mary Anne jumps out of its way. I roll my eyes. "That wasn't bad," Dawn tells her, which earns another eye roll from me. Dawn bumps the ball with her fists as it swings half-heartedly toward her and in return, Mary Anne swipes an arm out in front of her, catching the rope in the crook of her elbow.

"Don't be lame, Mary Anne!" Julie calls from the sidelines and then leaps in front of Mary Anne, slamming the ball with an open palm, then jumps backward again, out of the game.

On its return, the ball smacks Mary Anne in the forehead.

Julie and Paul both bury their faces in their hands and groan. Mary Anne, to her credit, doesn't cry. She simply and silently holds her hands over her face. "Mary Anne!" Dawn cries in alarm. "I didn't mean to!"

"It doesn't hurt," squeaks Mary Anne behind her hands.

"Jeanie, I _told_ you that thing was dangerous," Mrs. Bernstein crabs on the patio.

Mrs. McGill materializes at Mary Anne's side, where Stacey and Emily already huddle around her, attempting to pry Mary Anne's hands from her face. Mrs. McGill gets Mary Anne's hands down and there's an angry red circle dead center on her forehead.

"So, this is what happens at a barbecue," Mom comments from the patio.

Mrs. McGill glances over her shoulder to give Mom a funny look, then returns to tending to Mary Anne. Unable to keep to her own business, Mrs. Bernstein comes onto the court, carrying an unopened grape soda can in her hand and it still drips with water from the ice chest. Mary Anne takes a step back from her, but Mrs. Bernstein ignores the action, stopping close to Mary Anne, resting a hand on her arm and pressing the cold can against Mary Anne's forehead. "Keep that there," she instructs. "You'll be fine."

"Lucky that we have a real live pharmacist here," Mom remarks.

I look over at Mom and the patio. Mom remains seated in the plastic chair, not so straight and poised, leaning on her right elbow. Mr. Bernstein stares at his hands, palms down on the table, but Mrs. Stern swings her legs off the bench, not a glance at my mother and joins us on the court, sidling close to Mrs. Bernstein.

"Let me see your battle scar, Mary Anne," Mrs. Stern commands in that stuffy yet calming voice of hers. Mary Anne obeys, lowering the soda can. Mrs. Stern clucks almost cheerily over the red mark on Mary Anne's forehead. "Well, if anyone asks what you did this summer, you can tell them you got a concussion in Julie Stern's backyard!"

Mary Anne smiles weakly while blushing. Mrs. McGill drapes an arm across her shoulders. "It's not so bad, is it?" she asks and Mary Anne shakes her head.

"Welcome back to Stoneybrook, Mary Anne!" Julie calls from where she's seated on the tetherball, rocking gently back and forth.

"It was an accident," Dawn says to Mary Anne or no one in particular. She stands behind Julie, removed.

"Of course it was an accident," agrees Mrs. McGill. "No one thinks any different."

Mary Anne takes a moment before saying, "You didn't do it on purpose." Maybe a bit reluctantly. Or regretfully. Maybe she'd like another thing to use to pin the blame on Dawn.

Or maybe she's tired of blame altogether. I'd like to misread Mary Anne.

"Would you like a ride home, Mary Anne?" Pete offers. I'd forgotten him. He sits on the grass between Paul and Ross, watching the scene unfold. Beside him, Paul fake coughs something that may be "pussy-whipped".

"We can take Mary Anne home," Stacey pipes up with ice in her voice.

Mrs. Stern looks surprised. "You're leaving over a little bump?" she asks and Mrs. McGill assures her that it's time to go. Mary Anne's tired, after all, and perhaps, slowly bruising.

In no time, Mom's at my side, like a flash of lightning and says, "Perhaps, we should be going, too."

"I brought Dawn."

With a pause of hesitation, Stacey says, "We can give Dawn a lift." Mrs. McGill nods to her, like it was the right thing to do.

Mrs. Stern follows us to the front yard, along with Julie and Emily. Thankfully, Paul remains behind instead of trekking to the front to fully embarrass us in his glitter t-shirt. Also, thankfully, Mrs. Bernstein doesn't comes, but stays on the patio with Mr. Bernstein and Mr. Stern. Rachel's disappeared and I can't say anyone misses her. Mrs. Stern's final words are to Mary Anne. "Tell your dad not to sue us. We don't have anything," she says and waves happily as Mrs. McGill starts the station wagon.

In my Corvette, my mother's first words to me are, "Marian Bernstein needs to stop baking so many brownies for that husband of hers. Bernard's getting fat."

Even though Mr. Bernstein looks exactly as I always remember him, slightly pudgy around the middle, I only say, "I guess you enjoyed the barbecue."

"A lot of silliness," Mom replies. "It's always nice to be reminded, however, that likable people still reside in Stoneybrook. My last few conversations with Marian wiped that fact from my mind. Maureen is perfectly likable and I suppose Jeanie is, too. I just don't have anything to say to her."

"Why did you come tonight?" I ask.

"I don't know," Mom answers and gives her attention to the window.

In the house, Dad is seated on the couch in the living room with his feet propped on the coffee table. He's watching a rerun of some cop show. It's funny, Dad hardly ever watches television. "Ah!" he cries when Mom and I breeze into the living room. "I told you she wouldn't be ready to leave, my dear."

"Thank you for waiting for me to find that out," Mom responds.

"I didn't need to wait because I already knew the outcome."

"Mom doesn't belong at a barbecue," I inform Dad.

"Like a fox in a hen house."

Mom takes off one of her stilettos and throws it at Dad.

"Ow!" Dad exclaims, more out of shock than pain. He sits up straighter, rubbing the spot where the toe struck. "Fay!"

"Now we're even," Mom grumbles, stomping up the stairs.

I shrug off Dad's questioning look and hurry up the stairs, but not after my mother. I turn into my own bedroom. Down the hall, I hear her slamming drawers in hers. I don't quite understand why she's so angry. In fact, I don't understand at all. After several minutes, the slamming stops and I hear the faucets to the jacuzzi tub turn on and the water tumbling in to fill it. Dad doesn't come upstairs. In the living room, I hear the hum of the television continue. I strip off my own clothes, which I'd grown hot and sweaty in while in the Stern's backyard. I pull on dark green sweat shorts and the t-shirt Emily brought back from her trip to Georgetown. I brush out my hair and secure it into a tight ponytail. Then I stand at my dresser, listening to the water run down the hall. I listen until it stops. I open my jewelry box and take out the garnet ring. I slide it onto my right hand. Around my bruise, I slide on a bracelet of swirled green tiles. It's cool and holds close to my skin.

I go downstairs and my father doesn't say anything when I slip into the office and pour Mom's favored brand of rum into a tumbler. I carry the glass upstairs. I don't know why I do it.

My parents' bedroom door stands wide open, as does the door into the bathroom. When I enter, Mom's legs are draped over the end of the jacuzzi tub. No other part of her is visible. She's submerged beneath the water and I stand beside the tub, looking down on her, on her watery, distorted appearance beneath the surface.

Mom pops up, gasping for breath. Wet dark red hair clings like plaster against her face and she pushes it back. "Are you here to drown me?" Mom asks, resting her arms on the tub edge.

"I brought you this," I answer, setting the tumbler on the tile ledge. I perch on the opposite end.

Mom picks up the tumbler and sniffs the liquid. "Is it poisoned?"

"Yes."

"Good," Mom says and drains half the glass. "So refreshing for arsenic!"

"It's window cleaner."

"You could have plotted better for my demise."

"There's always next time."

"The wise man learns from his mistakes. Or wise woman. Whatever," Mom says. Her gaze falls to my hand, but not the correct one. "You're wearing my ring," she observes.

I twist it around my finger. "Yes," I respond and wonder if, indeed, it's still hers. It could only be a loan. Everything of mine could only be a loan. What will be asked of me in return?

"It looks very nice on you."

"Thanks," I tell her and take the chance to plunge on. "Are there other rings?"

Mom looks at me with quizzical eyes. "Other rings?"

"Is yours the only one? Or do Aunt Margolo and Aunt Corinne have rings, too?" The possibility has only just occurred to me.

"Why? Do you want them, too?" Mom asks. Her tone isn't really mean, but she catches herself anyway. She tries to save herself. "Yes. They had rings, too. We all received rings on our sixteenth birthdays. Why, I don't know. My mother's sick and crazy. I don't understand her thought process. Why she bothered."

We're off-track. "What kind of rings were they?" I ask.

"Who cares? Why is it important?" Mom shoots back. She sighs and rolls her eyes upward. "Well...Margolo's birthday was in August, so her birthstone was peridot. Yes. I remember. She had a pear-shaped peridot ring. Or maybe it was supposed to be tear-drop. And Corinne's...God, when is Corinne's birthday? Oh, she had a blue topaz ring. I guess her birthday's in December then. Oh...yes, it is. I remember Corinne arrived shortly before the holidays, like some damned wailing early Christmas present. My mother should have kicked her rashy ass back to the North Pole."

"Where is Aunt Margolo's ring?"

"God, I don't know. I haven't seen it in years and years."

"Was she buried with it?"

"Oh, don't be morbid, Grace."

"I'm just curious," I reply, defensively, standing up. I leave the bathroom without another word. As I walk down the hall to my own bedroom, I wonder about the ring. I try to push it out of my mind, all things about Gran and her attic secrets, but only mostly succeed. It doesn't help that when I finally play the messages on my answering machine, the second one is from Gran. I erase it without listening to her lies.

Dad's footfalls sound on the stairs and he pauses in my doorway long enough to say good night, even though it's barely nine o' clock. When he's gone, I turn on my television, but over it, hear my parents' bedroom door shut behind him. I wonder if he'll ask why Mom threw her shoe at him. I'd like to know, too. Sometimes my parents raise their voices at each other, but it's never more than that. Mom's temper is usually reserved for other people and, occasionally, inanimate objects like the electric can opener. I mute the television, listening for their raised voices now, but hear nothing.

Beside me, the telephone rings sharply and I reach to answer it. I touch the receiver and keep my hand there, keep my fingers barely brushing it. I wait for the rings to end and the machine clicks on followed by a short, efficient beep. "This is Emily," comes the caller's voice. "Are you screening? Pick up!"

I pick up.

"Why are you screening your calls?" Emily demands.

"I'm obviously not screening for you, so what does it matter?"

"I just want to know," Emily replies and when I say nothing, continues on, "I'm just calling to make sure you're not mad about us teasing you earlier. About your mom showing up at the Sterns. We were only kidding around."

"I haven't even thought about it," I answer, truthfully. I was irritated in the moment, but it's not crossed my mind since. Honestly, the things Emily finds to dwell on.

"Oh? All right then. We didn't mean anything by it though. Well, stop by tomorrow afternoon. Julie and I don't have anything to do."

"Okay, probably. Good night."

"Who were you talking to?" asks Mom's voice as I replace the receiver. She startles me. I didn't hear her come in. She stands not too far inside the doorway, hair blown dry and dressed for bed in pale pink silk shorts and a matching tank top. They have a fine gold floral-print. "Oh, am I supposed to knock?" Mom asks and raps on the wall behind her. "May I come in?"

"You may," I answer, switching off the television. "And I was talking to Emily."

"Oh. It's so unfortunate that we can't choose our parents. That poor girl may not have a chance," Mom says and sits down at the end of my bed. "Do you have plans for the weekend? You notice, I'm asking well in advance."

"I notice," I reply and draw my knees to my chest, so I am not so open. "What's this weekend? Oh. It's the fourth of July." We never make plans for the fourth. When I was little, we'd go over to the Masons. The last few years, my parents have stayed home or at the office and I've gone to the Sterns to watch Julie and Paul attempt to blow things up.

"I had lunch with Fiona today," Mom informs me and I think it's odd that she's switching the subject with such abruptness. Fiona is Fiona Fiore the woman behind the Fiona Fee lingerie empire. She must be close to eighty now and spends most of her time out of the country. I've met her a few times. She seems okay. "She's in town for her great-nephew's wedding," Mom continues. "I think it's his fourth, so I don't know why she bothered. But Fiona took me to lunch this afternoon and we talked a lot about the company, of course, but then Fiona asked about you. Don't fret, Grace. I told her mostly complimentary things. And then Fiona offered me her house in the Hamptons for the holiday. She thought you'd like to go."

"The Hamptons?" I repeat, doubtfully. I've never been to the Hamptons. I don't know anyone who's ever been. I've always imagined it as a place filled with old, rich people.

"Yes, the Hamptons. Why are you looking like that? I've stayed there before. It's a lovely house and right off the beach. Hal and I discussed it during the commute and we'd like to take you. We'd leave on Saturday, the second, and come back on Tuesday, so - "

"You don't miss too much work," I finish.

Mom quiets for a moment before saying, "Yes. Or, well...maybe we could stay until Wednesday," she adds, hastily. "Hal and I also decided that you probably won't have much fun just hanging around with us, so we'll let you invite a friend. Or two, if you like. We're going to ask Dot Wallingford if we can borrow her minivan. We'll have to try very hard, Grace, to not be embarrassed about riding in a minivan." Mom smiles at me. She's proud of herself for presenting such a surprise. "Does that sound like fun, Grace? You could invite Stacey and Mary Anne or Emily and Julie."

"I want to invite Dawn."

The smile melts from Mom's face. "I knew you'd be difficult about it."

"But that's who I want to invite."

"I'm making an effort here, Grace. You have to meet me part way. You can't just argue for argument's sake."

"I'm _not_. You said I could bring someone and I want to bring Dawn. It's not about you. I'm not _trying_ to make you mad. Do you think Dawn hit Mary Anne on purpose?"

"What? No. I doubt she's cruel. I just...fine, invite her. Invite Sharon Porter while you're at it. Invite Marian Bernstein, too!" Mom slides off the bed and storms toward the door.

"Please, I want to have _fun_!"

Mom stops in the doorway. "I want you to have fun, too," she says and walks out into the hall and down the stairs.

Nothing is ever easy with my mother. I rest my chin on my knee and hold my right hand out on the comforter, splaying my fingers. The garnet ring sparkles in the light. I start to call Dawn, but stop. I don't want to speak right now. Instead, I go into the closet and peel off my clothes. In a quick moment, I'm in my navy and red SHS swim suit and bounding down the stairs. I run passed Mom in the office and out through the kitchen. I dive into the deep end of the swimming pool, swim to the bottom, and think of staying there.


	33. Chapter 33

It's after eleven when I wake on Tuesday. Last night, I was in the pool until midnight, swimming from end to end, far beneath the surface of the water, following the glow of the pool light, until my mother appeared at the edge and told me to come inside. I may have remained in the pool, otherwise, all night long, longing to forget and be forgotten. I vanish there again today, in the lateness of Tuesday morning. The water is cool near the bottom, so far from the heat hanging in the air. I dart from end to end, tucking and rolling, pushing off to go back again. There is a rhythm to it, a beat I've fallen into and my mind swims like my body, moving with the current I determine, getting swiftly nowhere.

Our housekeeper, Marta, is inside, but as always, ignores me. It's an unwritten rule of the house. Ignore Grace. And that's just the way it is.

Two hours later, I'm in my room, showered, but still slightly pruned with stinging eyes. Tired of the silence, I switch on the radio to WSTO and listen to old U4ME and Great Blue Whales songs while curling the ends of my ponytail. I dress in jean shorts and a fitted lavender t-shirt and then snap a white-banded bracelet watch around my bruised wrist. Then I sit down on the bed and try to think of where to go from here.

I sit awhile and lose track of time until the ring of the telephone breaks my reverie. I stare at the ringing phone, as if, perhaps, I will know who is on the other end simply by the ring. I watch and listen, then the machine clicks on and Dawn's voice tells me to pick up the phone.

"You can't screen your calls forever," Dawn informs me when I answer.

"Certainly I can," I argue.

"Oh, well, you may be stubborn enough," Dawn replies, then without a breath says, "You won't believe where I am!"

"The Greenvale Country Club?" I guess.

"What? No! What would make you say that?"

"I don't know. It's the first place I thought of."

"Oh. Well, that's not where I am. I'm in Stamford at Richard's law firm. I'm working off part of my debt to him or something. You know, for the car that I drove into the tree? It's so boring here! All I've done all morning is make photo copies. _All morning_. Although, Richard did take me out to lunch. We went to this Mexican restaurant called El Sombrero. I ordered a bean and rice burrito. It was a little too greasy for my taste. I'm on my break now. Richard made me clock out for it!"

"I spent the last two hours in the pool."

"The fabulous life of Grace Blume," Dawn replies. "I still have to help with that landscaping project this weekend. Or whatever it is Richard and I are doing."

"This weekend? Will you be busy all weekend long?"

"I'm not sure. Why?"

"My parents are taking me to the Hamptons for the holiday. We're staying at Fiona Fee's house there - "

"There's really a Fiona Fee?" Dawn interrupts.

"Yes and don't interrupt me," I answer, irritably. "Anyway, she's loaning Mom her house in the Hamptons. Mom said I could invite a couple friends. We're leaving on Saturday."

"Is that an invitation?"

"Yes."

"You have a funny way of presenting it," Dawn tells me. "I've never been to the Hamptons and I miss the beach so much that I'd...I'd eat a cow for a chance to jump into the surf!"

"There's some desperation."

Dawn laughs. "Desperate times call for desperate measures." Dawn pauses in thought. "I'll talk to Richard. If I start the project on Thursday by myself, I bet he and I can finish Friday afternoon. It's probably only yard work anyway, pulling weeds and pruning bushes and stuff. We'll work it out. Hopefully without my mom's interference. Oh, hey, I gotta run. Richard's secretary is waving at me. Richard must have that ten minutes rule even at the office! Ha!"

"Enjoy the paper pushing," I say.

Dawn groans. "I'll talk to you later. Oh, and Grace?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks for inviting me."

And then Dawn hangs up.

I waste an hour reading the latest issue of _Teen _magazine that Marta brought in with today's mail. The telephone rings three times while I'm reading. The first time, it's Dad calling to ask about my day. I don't answer when his voice begins on the machine because our conversations are always the same. He has two sentences for me: _What are your plans today? _and _That sounds like fun_. It never changes. I don't see why he bothers calling at all. After Dad, Emily calls to demand that I come over to her house. Ten minutes later, she calls back so that Julie and Paul can sing a jingle they wrote about me during that ten minute period. I roll my eyes and continue reading about the Insects Scandinavian tour.

The last page of _Teen _ is a photo spread of the contents of Corrie Lalique's purse. I don't know how much I can like her now that I know she wears cupcake-flavored lip gloss. Unacceptable. I toss aside the magazine and go to my desk where I begin making lists for the Hamptons. On one list, I plan out what to pack. On the second list, I write down what I need to buy for the trip. I wish I knew anything about the Hamptons, then I could make a list of how to fill the holiday weekend. In Stoneybrook, everyone goes to Vermont in the winter and to the Jersey shore in the summer.

Marta's already left by the time I come downstairs. I lock up, then leave in my Corvette for downtown Stoneybrook. First, I drive to the Foto Stop for film and extra batteries for my camera. Then I drop off a blouse and a couple dresses at Pierre's Dry Cleaners before walking over to the Merry-Go-Round, where I buy a pair of flip-flops with shimmery white beads across the top. I also purchase a large black clip, in case I need to put my hair up while on the beach, and a pack of ponytail holders. At the register, I impulse buy a tube of peach-flavored chapstick.

When I step out of the Merry-Go-Round and onto Main Street, I meet Mari Drabek coming from the direction of Essex. I stop on the curb as Mari slows her bicycle, dragging her feet on the sidewalk.

"Hello Grace," Mari's says when she finally comes to a full stop. She sounds put out.

"Hi, Mar," I respond, casually, thinking of how to immediately turn the conversation in my favor.

"Where were you on Sunday?" demands Mari. Mari doesn't pull her punches. She charges forward and attacks. "I waited for you! Your grandmother said she didn't know where you were. Didn't you get my message?"

"Oh," I reply, only now remembering that Mari called on Sunday afternoon. I erased it and forgot it. "Yes. I did. I'm returning it right now."

"Well, I've been concerned!" Mari replies, but we both know that if she really suspected anything serious had befallen me, she would have called more than once. "You missed a lot on Sunday. We're having a youth group outing on Thursday night. We're going miniature golfing, which wasn't _my_ first choice, but since _you_ weren't there...well, I got out-voted..." Mari says, lifting her shoulders and releasing a long sigh. "I'm thinking about boycotting it."

"Then I'll boycott it, too," I say because I don't want to go anyway. "So…what are you doing now?"

"Ellie had some of us over to try out her new pool. I'm just on my way home," Mari says and I notice, for the first time, that she has on a turquoise swimsuit underneath her unbuttoned shirt. Mari blows a lank of brown hair out of her eyes. "And you know, you can't return a phone message on a street corner."

"Why not?"

"I don't think it's proper etiquette."

"Since when are you Emily Post?" I ask with enough irritation to let Mari know I'm finished with the subject. "Do you want to go to Argo's for a soda or something? I have more errands, but I'd like to take a break."

"I'm broke."

"I'll buy," I offer and take a step in the direction of Argo's. I wait.

"Oh, all right," Mari sighs, like she's doing me a gigantic favor. She hops off her bicycle and walks it beside me.

At Argo's, I claim the usual booth beside the window and Mari slides in across from me. Argo's isn't her usual place. She prefers Thelma's Café where mostly Stoneybrook Day kids hang out. Mari glances around, surveying the diner, checking out who's here and with whom. Lauren Hoffman and Robert Brewster are huddled in a booth, heads tilted together, giggling and talking low. I could vomit. Some other kids from school are across the diner, too. Kara Mauricio, Katie Shea, Rick Chow, the usual Argo's crowd.

Mari slips off her glasses and tucks them inside her purse. She doesn't wear them often. Mari's a self-conscious person, always worrying what others think of her and know of her and are on the verge of learning about her. She's always a leap and a bound ahead.

We don't often do this. Hang around downtown, Mari and I, just the two of us. We play tennis and sit together at church. Sometimes Mari comes over to swim and sometimes, when she's in the right mood, Mari invites me over to her house. We are a different sort of friend. Mari's been my friend longer than anyone else. When the time came, she chose me over Cokie. No one else did that. No one else has ever chosen me.

"Do you have plans this weekend?" I ask impulsively. Perhaps, it is my turn to choose Mari. And if I choose Mari, I will not have to choose between anyone else. It will not be Emily or Julie or Stacey or Mary Anne. It will simply be Mari, a choice from another list, an only choice. "My parents are taking me to the Hamptons for the holiday weekend. We're staying at Fiona Fee's beach house – _the_ Fiona Fee, so naturally, it'll be amazing. Want to come?"

Mari frowns. "This weekend? I leave for culinary camp this weekend," she answers and in her voice, I hear her impatience at my forgetting.

"That's this weekend? I thought it was next." I lie.

"No. I leave on Saturday," Mari says and then hangs onto a silence, so her disappointment vibrates between us. "Maybe next time," she finally says and leans forward to sip her cherry coke.

I hate when Mari's in a mood.

"Next time," I repeat after her. I think of how to turn things around. "Of course, I wish it were _this_ time, Mar," I add.

"Yeah?" Mari replies, looking up from her cherry coke. She isn't always so hard to win over. "Well, I hope there's a next time then. Who will you invite instead?"

I take a long drink from my own glass, thinking of how to work my way around that question. If I say, _Oh, I already invited Dawn, _Mari will bristle and sulk. No one wants to be second choice. An afterthought. An add-on. "Oh, well, my mother already invited Dawn," I tell Mari and there's really no way I can pretend to myself it's not a lie. "But I don't know that I'll invite anyone else since you can't go."

The right corner of Mari's mouth curls slightly upward. Everyone wants to be a better choice than another. "I doubt you'll have an awful time," Mari assures me, which in the secret language of Mari, is her way of saying that Dawn's not awful. "Maybe Dawn will want to come miniature golfing on Thursday."

"I thought we were boycotting that."

"I wasn't serious, Grace," Mari protests with an eye roll. "If we're not there, things may get completely out of hand."

I don't care for miniature golfing. I don't care for games I can't win and I tend to swing a golf club like a racket. "I might be busy. I think my mother wants to go shopping for the Hamptons."

Mari sees through my lie. She pretends otherwise. She pretends in the way my friends often do when it comes to the absence of my parents. Like no one notices, like no one knows. Mari lets me slide. "Oh, okay," Mari sighs. "I guess I can hold it together on my own. But, well, I was going to ask you…" Mari pauses and her cheeks brighten slightly. "Can I borrow ten dollars? I really _am_ broke. I may be broke for awhile."

"It's no problem," I answer her and dig into my purse for my wallet. I push the money across the table to Mari and she snatches it quickly and buries it inside her own purse.

I don't ask why she's broke "for a while".

With Mari it has to come on her terms.

"Dad suspended my allowance because I got into an argument with Mom," Mari informs me when I haven't waited long. "We've been arguing a lot lately. Dad says it's all my fault for being so unforgiving. I don't think it's unforgiving to have morals. Do you?"

"Of course not."

"I think they're hypocrites," Mari tells me. "Dad says I'm a hypocrite then if I take Mom's money. Do you think I am? Do you think that makes me a bad person?" Mari regards me anxiously. Mari is an anxious person. She spends so much time worrying. She worries about all things, the weight of her world on her shoulders. The weight sends her to her knees from where she tries to pray it all away.

"I don't know, Mar."

Mari nods, but her face screws up in an anxious way. I've done nothing to soothe her fears, those private, secret fears she holds so dear. Mari sucks up the remainder of her cherry coke until there's only ice and air. I signal the waiter for a refill. It's what I can offer Mari. I have no words to comfort or encourage. I am not wise.

"You aren't a bad person, Mar," I tell her and that's what I have. "I know that."

Mari releases a breath. It's anxiety as air. She nods and sips her newly delivered cherry coke.

There's a rapping on the glass beside us. We turn our heads toward the window to see Stacey and Emily standing on the other side. Stacey with her right fist raised to rap again, Emily wiggling her fingers at us. Brightly, brightly, I turn myself on. I match their smiles, match their waves. Mari waves, too, half-hearted. Mari isn't a light.

Stacey and Emily come inside, slide into our booth. Emily beside me, Stacey next to Mari.

"Hey, Grace. Hey, Mari," Stacey greets us with a smile and everyone echoes back to her.

"Greetings. Where are your better halves?" I ask. It isn't often that Stacey and Emily are together, alone, no one else attached at their hips.

"Oh, please!" Emily replies, haughtily. "Julie and I aren't married!"

"I'll return the wedding gift then."

"You are a pill," Stacey says, flagging down the waiter. "And for your information, Mary Anne's at the Kid Center. I have the afternoon off. I think I may be hungry." Stacey reaches across Mari to grab a menu from behind the salt and pepper shakers. "So…where's your better half?" she asks, flipping over the menu.

"I don't know who you're talking about," I reply, crisply, and turn to Emily. "I so enjoyed the jingle earlier," I tell her.

"Oh, did you? I was playing the table, in case you couldn't hear."

"I missed that. Are you formally trained on the table?"

"I need to go," Mari announces, motioning for Stacey to let her out.

"Oh, don't go, Mari," Emily protests.

"I have to watch my brother," Mari says, scooting out of the booth. "I'll see you all later. Call me, Grace." Mari hurries off.

I let her go. Through the window, I watch her unchain her bicycle and slide on her glasses before pedaling away.

"We didn't mean to run Mari off," Stacey says to me.

I shrug and stir the straw in my pineapple soda. "You know Mari," I say, even though she doesn't. We all played tennis together freshman year, and for a while, in middle school, Mari and Stacey and Emily competed on the Mathletes team. But that doesn't count as knowing someone.

But Stacey just smiles and sets aside her menu. When the waiter stops by, she orders a diet coke and Emily orders a lemonade. Stacey decides against food.

"Guess what?" Stacey asks when the drinks arrive. She doesn't wait for an answer. "I'm going to New York this weekend. My dad called last night and invited me. He got tickets for that new musical, _Starbright_. Samantha has a shoot in Chicago, so it'll be just Dad and me." Stacey smiles, radiantly, like she hasn't been disappointed before, like she won't be disappointed again.

"That show is supposed to be amazing!" Emily exclaims. "I read in the _Times_ that the costumes alone are worth the ticket price. You're so lucky, Stace! I wish my dad would take me to a Broadway show. He's afraid of the subway."

I roll my eyes, but Emily doesn't catch it.

"I picked up the soundtrack after class," Stacey continues, removing a cassette from her purse. "I haven't listened to it yet. Mary Anne's coming over tonight, though, and we're going to lay around my room and sort of soak up the music. If anyone else is interested…"

"My uncle and his girlfriend are coming for dinner. I'll have to soak another time," replies Emily.

"Rain check for me, too," I answer and take a long sip of soda. "It's really too bad about your weekend, Stace."

Stacey raises her eyebrows. "Oh?"

I toss my ponytail over my shoulder. "My parents are taking me to the Hamptons for the fourth. We're staying at Fiona Fee's beach house. I was going to invite you, but…" I shrug, apologetically.

Stacey's blue eyes bug out. "Are you serious?" she demands. "Fiona Fee? _The_ Fiona Fee? The woman who practically invented the thong?"

I shrug again. "Did she?"

"Yes! Every time a new catalogue comes out, my mother blows an entire paycheck. Not that she has anyone to wear the merchandise for…" Stacey sighs and shakes her head. "But you're staying at Fiona Fee's beach house? Your parents _know_ her?"

"Of course they know her!"

"How?"

I stare back at Stacey. Her expression is earnest, interested. She wants me to go on. She really wants to know. She really _doesn't_ know. I glance over at Emily. She has that same imploring look. I almost shake myself to shed the disbelief.

"Where do you think my parents work?" I finally demand.

"Your parents work for Fiona Fee?" Emily asks.

"For real?" adds Stacey.

"My mother is the chief financial officer," I say, flatly.

"Oh," Stacey replies and looks across at Emily. There's silence. I lean back in the booth and sulk. How did they not know? How could they not? I am so invisible. I am so nonexistent.

"Actually," Emily says to break the silence. "I think I _did_ know that. I had just forgotten. So, am I invited?"

Across the table, Stacey hasn't quite recovered from her embarrassment and I've not quite recovered from my disappointment. Another time, another moment, I would chide Emily for her surprising lack of manners. Instead, I only answer, "Of course," with little to no enthusiasm. The invitation doesn't seem so special now. It's not like such a big deal. All the air has run out of my moment and I am deflated.

Emily wants to know about the Hamptons, evenything and anything, most of which I can't tell her. Stacey comes back to life, eventually, and joins the conversation. But it's never the same for me, not even after I stop sulking, not even after the excitement seeps back in. In the back of my mind, I'm not so important. It may seem like a slight slight to anyone else, but to me, it is so much larger. A widening gap between me and the world. My friends should know these things about me. I should not be a surprise.

We pay the bill and leave together, Emily, Stacey, and I. Stacey's turquoise Impala is parked right outside Argo's and we stand crowded around its hood. "It's too bad about this weekend," Stacey offers me. "I'm going to miss a fantastic trip!"

And I take it. "Yeah. Too bad. But next time will be different," I tell her.

Then Stacey pauses before asking the question I've waited almost an hour for her to ask. "Are you inviting Mary Anne?"

In almost an hour, I've not thought of an answer. So, I shrug.

"You should invite her," Stacey informs me, like she is my mother. "She won't be able to go. She's covering my shifts at the Kid Center, so I can go to New York again. You should ask her anyway."

"I'll take that under advisement."

Stacey ducks into her car and we wave her off.

"You invited Dawn," Emily says the first chance she gets. And I know that Stacey knows, too.

"Yes," I confirm without reassurances about Emily's own place in line. I am never first to anyone.

Emily doesn't offer an opinion, which isn't much like Emily. Instead, she takes a tube of chapstick from her shorts pocket, glides it across her lips, and suggests we visit her parents. "I need to ask permission for the Hamptons," she tells me.

I'm not in the mood. But I walk with Emily anyway. I slide on my Chanel sunglasses, the ones my father snagged for me, free, from Fiona Fee. I wear them as a shield, protection from the sun and all else. Emily's little beside me. I look down on her, on her curled brown hair and white headband. I want to ask her why she doesn't really know me.

"You weren't very nice to Stacey," Emily informs me out of nowhere.

"Excuse me?"

"It seemed like you were purposely trying to make her feel bad. It's the way you brought up the Hamptons. Like you were rubbing it in her face."

"I don't think I did that," I reply, coolly. But I doubt myself. I push the doubt aside.

"I'm just telling you how you came across. Stacey may think the same. It's just an observation."

"She'll get over it," I snap. I don't know why I snap. Maybe I'm snapping in every way. Because all of a sudden, I want _out. _Out of Stoneybrook, out of Connecticut, out of my skin. I want to run. "Talk to your parents yourself. I have things to do," I tell Emily. We've reached my car and in an instant, I'm in it. I leave Emily there, on Main Street, watching after me, hand shielded over her eyes.

I drive straight home and bound up the stairs. No one's there but me. I peel off my clothes, kick them aside, and pull on my SHS gym clothes. I take off, out of my house, not locking the doors. I run and I run and I run. I run so fast that I don't have to stop to wonder what I'm running from. It's chasing me. It's chasing me. It chases me in the blazing afternoon sun. All the way down Locust, all through downtown, all the way across Stoneybrook. I run until I collapse, a shooting pain down my side. I collapse at the entrance to the Bainbridge Estates. I've run all the way to my grandmother's and never noticed along the way. I sit beneath the sign, sweat-soaked, finding my breath. Nothing ever catches me. I wait for it, but it never comes.

I walk home when dusk falls.

My parents are there when I walk through the door. My absence isn't peculiar to them. They never noticed the unlocked front door. Dad's in the study on the telephone, puffing on a cigar and laughing. Mom's on the living room couch on the other telephone, half out of her work clothes. She's only wearing one stiletto. All I hear, as I pass through, is Mom saying, "Of course it's not an imposition, Sharon." I don't stick around. I walk straight into the backyard and jump into the swimming pool. In my gym clothes. In my running shoes. I wait at the bottom for someone to find me. Eventually, my mother's reflection looks down on me and I resurface.

"I don't even want to know what you're doing," Mom says to me, "but I'm pretty sure you just ruined a pair of my running shoes."

"These are mine."

"I forgive you either way," Mom says. "Sharon Porter just called. She's given Dawn permission to come to the Hamptons. We ironed out all the details. I'm certain you're pleased."

I shrug in the water. "How was it?"

"What?"

"The phone call."

"I just told you," Mom answers, irritated. "And Dawn's here. She and Hal are putting her bike inside the garage. You could be more presentable, Grace." Mom turns and goes inside. I don't warn her that Mrs. Bernstein will be calling, too.

Dawn appears on the patio. "Are you swimming in your clothes?" she asks me.

"I was hot."

Dawn chuckles and looks behind her. There's no one in the lighted kitchen. She kicks off her flip-flops and unbuttons her jean shorts. Dawn jumps into the deep end in only her black tank top and red bikini briefs.

"My parents are going to think you're so indecent," I scold her. "You're such a bad influence."

"Me?" Dawn squeals. "I'm not the one wearing _sneakers_!"

Somehow I forgot those soggy weights on my feet. I hoist myself onto the cement and tug off my soaking socks and shoes. While I'm at it, I peel off the sweat shorts and t-shirt that have become a heavy second skin.

"Please don't strip any further," Dawn pleads with a laugh.

I hop back into the pool in my sports bra and panties. "Oh, please, the last thing I need is Norman Hill peeking over the fence and snapping photos of me in the nude. I have a reputation to protect if I'm going to be Homecoming Queen."

"You have the most interesting priorities," Dawn observes. She backstrokes away from me. "Guess what? Mom and Richard agreed to let me go to the Hamptons. They didn't exactly agree with each other. I approached them separately and struck separate bargains. I think I'm learning how to navigate the system. And guess also what? Mary Anne loaned me her bike, so I could ride over here. She appears to be living at the house again."

"Really?" I reply. I take down my wet ponytail and duck underwater. I come back up and say, "That's great, Dawn." But I don't feel that it's great. I don't want Dawn and Mary Anne to make up. I realized that just in this moment.

"Mary Anne even passed a baby-sitting job my way," Dawn continues. "It came up last minute and she's already working tomorrow at the Kid Center. So, I'll sit for the Marshalls tomorrow in her place. I miss baby-sitting, sometimes at least, and it'll give me money for the Hamptons. What do you think?"

"About baby-sitting? I think it sucks."

Dawn chuckles. "No, no. About Mary Anne and me! I mean, we'll never really be friends again, probably, but I like the thought of us co-existing in peace. For the summer at least. "

"Sounds great," I say, dismissively. "So, I think Emily's coming to the Hamptons, too. That is, if her wacko parents are willing to part with her for the weekend. I asked Mari, but she's going to culinary camp, which sounds impossibly boring. And Emily said that Julie's family is going camping for the holiday. That has disaster spelled all over it right there. Stacey and Mary Anne are busy, too. So, it'll probably be you, me, and Emily."

"You're a pro at turning the conversation back onto yourself," Dawn informs me.

"I really can't take anymore criticism tonight, thanks."

In the glow of the pool light, Dawn cocks an eyebrow at me. "I won't ask, if you don't want to tell," she says and waits for me to speak, which I don't. "All right," Dawn says, easily, floating by. "Hey, that's a cool ring." Dawn comes closer to where I sit on the steps.

I hold my right hand up for her. "It's a birthstone ring," I tell her. "It's real garnet. It was my mother's, but now it's mine. Gran bought it for Mom's sixteenth birthday." It's odd mentioning Gran. Dawn catches the oddness, too. It passes swiftly between us.

"Should you be swimming with it on?" Dawn asks me. "It might slip off and get sucked up by the pool sweep."

I shrug. It hadn't occurred to me. I'd forgotten the ring altogether.

"I have a fake amethyst ring back home in California. It turns my finger green."

"This doesn't. It's real gold. It's real everything." I admire the ring, how even dripping with chlorine, it sparkles on my hand. It's real and it's beautiful. "Mom told me that Aunt Corinne and Aunt Margolo had rings, too. You'll be interested to know this – Mom doesn't know what happened to Aunt Margolo's ring. It was a peridot. A pear-shaped peridot. Mom hasn't seen it in years."

A funny expression creeps onto Dawn's face. "I've seen a pear-shaped peridot ring," she says.

"Really? Where?" I ask in surprise. "At Gran's?" Was it in the attic? Stuffed inside a box? How did I miss it?

"No," Dawn answers and that funny expression lingers on her face. "In my mother's jewelry box."


	34. Chapter 34

I don't sleep late on Wednesday. There's too much to do. I swim my morning laps, then showered and dressed and armed with my lists, head downtown. My first stop is Bellair's department store, where I pick up a few necessities in the junior's department – a new pair of jean Capri pants, a couple tank tops, and after much consideration, a jade green strapless swimsuit. I browse through accessories with no luck and then in the book department search for a guidebook to the Hamptons, but there isn't one. At half past twelve, I leave Bellair's and drive down Essex to the Bernstein's pharmacy. I take a deep breath and brace myself before pushing through the front door.

The door chimes when I enter, but the Bernsteins aren't in sight. I wait for Mrs. Bernstein to jump out from behind the sunscreen display and when she doesn't, I go to the front counter, lean over it, craning my neck toward the back of the store. "Hello!" I call out, impatiently, and tap the bell. I tap it a few times for good measure. Finally, I hear movement from the back and….something else. Something unexpected. I lean farther over the counter, trying to catch the sound better and that's how Mrs. Bernstein finds me when she finally appears.

"What are you doing?" she asks in her usual crabby fashion.

"That music," I reply without answering. "What are you watching back there?"

"Nothing. Now do you need something? Because if not, I'd like to go back to my lunch."

"You're watching _All My Children_!" I exclaim.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

I laugh and lean even farther over the counter, so that my feet no longer touch the ground. "You lie! I can hear Erica Kane's voice!" I laugh again unable to contain my glee.

"Please, I don't watch that trash. I don't know what Bernard has on," Mrs. Bernstein tells me. "Now, what do you want? And get off my counter! Bernard just cleaned it."

I slide back down to my feet. "I need some prescriptions refilled," I answer, unzipping my purse and digging for the prescription bottles. "Unless of course, you'd prefer that I come back when your soap opera is over."

Mrs. Bernstein holds out her open palm and stares back at me in a cold, stony silence. She has no sense of humor.

I place the empty bottle for my allergy pills in her hand and the bottle for Dad's blood pressure medication. I found the bottle in his bathroom and though it wasn't yet empty, decided it best to have the prescription refilled before our vacation. "And my mother called this morning," I inform Mrs. Bernstein as she studies the labels on the bottles. "She believes she lost her pills on the train. She doesn't remember the name, but they're the tiny red ones."

"The tiny red ones?" Mrs. Bernstein repeats. "How specific," she remarks and turns to her computer. She begins typing and says, "Your mother should take better care of herself."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. What does Mrs. Bernstein know about my mother?

"I'm kind of in a hurry. Can this not take forever?" I ask.

"Patience, Miss Blume."

I hate that name. "You know, the last time I was in here, that Mr. Malkowski moved like molasses. He kept me waiting for over fifteen minutes."

"He was having a good day then," Mrs. Bernstein replies without looking at me. "It probably wouldn't take so much time if you _called _first. Unfortunately for you, you have another wait ahead of you. Your prescriptions will be ready in about fifteen minutes. Would you like to pay now?"

I detest waiting. "I'll come back later." And I'm certainly not waiting here with Mrs. Bernstein, so that she may lecture me on all my supposed faults and shortcomings. "Where's Emily?"

"At the library working on her summer homework. She's such a studious child," answers Mrs. Bernstein and I can tell she's biting her tongue to ask why I'm not working on my summer homework and why I'm not perfect like Emily.

"Did Emily tell you that my parents are taking me to the Hamptons?" I ask Mrs. Bernstein. I want to add on a question, asking why she's not given Emily permission to come, why she's not mentioned the trip at all.

"How very glamorous for you," Mrs. Bernstein comments, then disappears into the back of the pharmacy.

Well!

Leaving the pharmacy empty-handed, I trek all the way down to the public library. The library is definitely not a place I planned to visit during my summer vacation. The library reeks of school. Once inside, I see Erica Blumberg in the children's room, dusting the shelves behind the desk. My eyes fall to the far back of the room and onto the unfortunate visage of Mallory Pike seated beside the uncataloged paperback rack, turning it slowly, examining the spines of each book. There's a large stack of books already next to her, waiting at her knee. She doesn't see me, doesn't ever glance up. I snort and continue on my way. It figures that Mallory Pike would still be at a third grade reading level.

Emily's buried behind a stack of books in the reference section. So engrossed in her studies, she doesn't notice my approach. She keeps on reading, eyes held intensely on the page, pencil end inside her mouth.

"Who comes to the library during the _summer_?" I ask in disgust, stopping at her study carrel.

Startled, Emily looks up, instantly spitting the pencil out of her mouth. "Grace," she gasps in surprise.

"That's really gross, Emily." I inform her and appreciate the guilty expression on her face as she sets the pencil down. "Your mother was extremely rude to me at the pharmacy."

Emily shrugs. "Yes, well…you already know how she is, so you should have expected that."

"Why haven't you asked permission for the Hamptons?"

"What? Oh. I have a plan, that's why. See, my parents have been on my case ever since the car accident. I doubt they'll let me go anywhere at this point. So, I'm proving how responsible I am by spending the day at the library."

"That's a dumb plan."

"Some of us have to earn things, Grace," Emily retorts. She shuts her binder and continues before I can bite back. "Besides, after yesterday, I thought maybe you'd want to retract the invitation. I didn't intend to upset you. I just thought you should be made aware of Stacey's possible feelings. Also, I did know your parents worked at the Fiona Fee headquarters. You don't mention it very often and so I just forgot."

"It's not a big deal," I lie.

Emily nods slightly, relieved.

"Isn't this the same plan you've had before?" I ask after a moment's silence.

"I don't have to mix things up very often with my parents," Emily answers. She begins lifting the pencil to her mouth, realizes it, and lowers the pencil again, guilt creeping into her eyes. "Am I still invited then?"

"Of course," although, really, Emily mostly invited herself in the first place.

Emily glances at her watch. "It's as good a time as any, then, to ask permission. It's after lunchtime, so my dad's probably taking a nap. It's easier to ask these things one-on-one. There's less foolish bickering." Emily stands and begins shoving her books into her bag.

"Bicker? _Your _parents?" I gasp in mock surprise.

Emily shoots me a nasty look.

I ride shotgun in Emily's Toyota for the short distance between the public library and the Bernstein's pharmacy. We listen to the Greatest Hits of Bette Midler, but thankfully, the drive lasts less than a minute and a half. When Emily and I enter the pharmacy, Mrs. Bernstein's waiting on a customer, utilizing the same brand of charm she displayed to me earlier. She cranks at the customer about vitamins while Emily and I browse the sunscreens. I select a bottle carefully, hand briefly hovering above the SPF 30 before reaching for and grabbing the SPF 45. I don't tan. I burn and crisp. So better safe than sorry. But just in case, I pick up some aloe vera.

When her customer leaves and I approach the counter, Mrs. Bernstein grouches at me, "I'm not ready for you," and turns and disappears into the back. Just as before.

I turn to Emily, offering an exasperated look.

Emily waves her hand. "It's not you," she tells me and then comes to the counter. She's just torn a tube of chapstick from its box. She unscrews the top, sniffs it, and says, "SPF 15," and closes the tube again. When her mother returns, Emily says, "I'm taking this," and drops the chapstick into her open purse.

In response, Mrs. Bernstein merely looks cranky. "Here, here, and here," she says, setting my prescriptions on the counter. "Sign, sign, and sign. I'll get a bag."

I take my time signing my name to the slips and then push the sunscreen and aloe in her direction. Finally, Mrs. Bernstein rings me up and holds out her hand while I count out the exact change.

"Mom?" Emily ventures when the transaction is complete.

"What is it, Emily Elaine?" Mrs. Bernstein replies, distractedly.

Emily glances at me and I nod, encouragingly. Emily looks back at her mother. "Mom, Grace and her parents are going to the Hamptons for the Fourth of July. They're staying at a beach house there, right _on_ the beach. The house belongs to Fiona Fee. You know? She makes lingerie?" Emily pauses for her mother to respond, but Mrs. Bernstein says nothing. Emily continues. "Grace invited me along. Can I go?"

"Out of the question," Mrs. Bernstein answers and turns away, giving her attention to an opened box of sleep aids. She begins sticking price labels on the individual boxes.

Emily's mouth drops. "Mo-o-o-om!" Emily cries. "You didn't even _think_ about it!"

"I don't need to think. You're not going."

"_Mother!"_

Mrs. Bernstein turns back to us, peering over her glasses, looking particularly mosquito-like. "Emily Elaine, don't whine," she snaps. "After all you've gotten up to so far this summer, your father and I hardly need you running around the Hamptons unsupervised and out of control. In another week, you'll be leaving for camp. I'd like you to stay home until then. Besides, you promised to help take inventory of the fourth."

"Only because I had nothing else to do! Mom, you have to let me go. I'll be all alone during the long weekend. _Everyone's _going out of town. Grace will be in the Hamptons, Stacey will be in New York, Julie and Mary Anne will be camping…"

I raise an eyebrow at that one. That's news to me.

"And I've not been up to anything this summer! It was one stupid accident! It isn't fair!" Emily exclaims and stamps her foot.

"You're going to wake your father," Mrs. Bernstein complains. "I'm not having this conversation in front of Grace. We'll discuss it at home tonight."

I expect Emily to hold her breath in protest, hold it in until her mother caves, the way I did when I was a child and did not get my way. Emily's face has flushed, but she keeps on breathing and instead, throws an unexpected card on the table. "When you were my age," Emily says to her mother, "if anyone had ever invited you anywhere, wouldn't you have wanted your parents to say 'yes'?"

Emily catches Mrs. Bernstein off-guard. Instantly, Mrs. Bernstein opens her mouth to reply, but no sound emerges. She doesn't look grouchy any longer. She's all surprise.

And finally, she thinks about Emily's initial request.

"When are you leaving?" she asks me.

"Saturday. We'll be back on Tuesday."

"Your parents will be there?"

"Of course! The entire time. It's a very safe town," I assure her. In truth, I know nothing about where we're going. "Much safer than New York City," I add, pointedly.

Mrs. Bernstein somewhat bristles. She gives Emily her attention. "I suppose you'll actually be supervised by adults this time? It won't be like last spring when I let you take off to New York with Stacey?"

"No, no," Emily swears. "Mr. and Mrs. Blume will actually be with us. They won't let us run wild in the streets like Mr. McGill did with no regard to our safety and well-being." Emily smiles prettily, no doubt just repeating her mother's own oft-crabbed sentiments.

Mrs. Bernstein studies us from behind her glasses. She stares for a long while, weighing our promises and our potential lies, weighing the ramifications of both. She considers us. "If your father says it's all right," she finally tells us.

Beside me, Emily squeals. She grabs my arm and hisses, "That means 'yes'." She bounces giddily. She puts on a happy show for her mother. "Thanks, Mom!" she cries and bounces some more. "We need to start getting ready!" she informs me, grasping my arm. "And I need to finish my summer work," Emily adds hastily. Then she pulls me from the pharmacy, calling good-bye to her mother.

Outside, Emily says, "That was easier than I expected."

"That was appalling."

"I got my way, didn't I?" Emily shoots back.

"_If anyone had ever invited you anywhere…_" I mimic. "That was just mean."

"Pssh," Emily responds with a wave of her hand. "When she was my age, she'd never been outside Atlanta. I know how to work my parents. I'm definitely going on this trip. My mother's given her permission and my father won't contradict her."

And I'm the spoiled one?

"So, what should I bring on the trip?" Emily asks me. "Is this appropriate for the Hamptons? I don't want to look out of place." Emily gestures to her outfit, a dark jean skirt and a buttoned blouse, cream-colored with teal and emerald hearts. She's forgone the standard headband and replaced it with white plastic barrettes.

"It's fine, if you want to look like your mother dresses you."

Emily's temper flares. "My mother doesn't dress me!" she practically shouts right on the street.

"Maybe I'll come over later to see if you have anything appropriate in your closet."

"I could probably borrow some of your clothes, if you weren't a giantess."

"And have your gigantic breasts stretch out all my shirts? No thanks!"

"Oh, my gosh! I can't believe you said that on the _street_!" Emily cries as her face reddens.

"Oh, please. It wasn't that loud," I say, dismissing her horror. Like everyone doesn't know her breasts are the size of cantaloupes. She'll get over it. "But I will come over and go through your closet," I offer like the gift it is.

Emily almost refuses the gift, but thinks better of it. "All right," she agrees, grudgingly. "Want to come over now?"

I shake my head. "No. I have things to do at home." Really, I want to take an inventory of my own closet and plan exactly what to pack and what to have Marta wash and press. "But later."

"I should probably do some more work while I can," Emily says. "Julie's playing volleyball at the community center. She'll probably be there most of the afternoon. Sports." Emily rolls her eyes in disgust.

If I enjoyed volleyball a smidge more, I might join Julie. But I don't, so I just say, "What's this about Julie and Mary Anne camping together?"

Emily wrinkles her nose. "It sounds awful, doesn't it? The Sterns have pestered my family for weeks to join them on this so-called outdoor adventure. Please! My parents don't even like going into the backyard, let alone the backwoods. But about Mary Anne…Julie went over to Stace's last night to listen to the _Starbright_ soundtrack. Julie found out that Stace will be in New York over the weekend and that you're going away, too, so she invited Mary Anne camping. Mary Anne works all weekend, but Mr. Spier will drive her up to the mountains on Monday morning. She'll come back with the Sterns."

I raise my eyebrows. "Mary Anne's…going camping?" I repeat for clarification. Emily nods. "With the Sterns?" I ask and Emily nods again. It's hard to wrap my head around. What can I say? "Maybe Paul Stern will fall in love with her, then, and get off my back."

Emily chuckles. We say our goodbyes and climb into our cars. I wave to Emily before backing out into the street. When she's out of sight, I smile to myself over how well things have worked out. I don't have to invite Mary Anne to the Hamptons. I don't have to face a scene over it. I don't have to do anything, except prepare for my fabulous trip. No worries. Thank you, Julie. Thank you. Thank you.

I'm still smiling when I turn onto Locust. Still smiling when I roar up the drive. Still smiling until I spot my grandmother sitting in front of my house, perched on the front steps. Waiting.

I stop smiling.

I'm not smiling when I get out of the car. I'm not smiling when I decide against simply shutting the garage door and going inside the house. And I'm not smiling when I come around to the front lawn. Instead, I cross the lawn with sick knots tightening in my stomach. I approach Gran with nothing but apprehension. There are no smiles for her.

Gran stands when I near. She looks exactly like the grandmother I've had my whole life. She looks nothing like the monster I met the other day. Her face isn't twisted, her outsides aren't evil. She is nothing but my grandmother, standing and waiting in the blazing afternoon sun. For me.

She threw me down the stairs.

"Grace, dear," Gran greets me. Tentative. "I'm relieved to see you're all right. I've worried about you." Gran clasps her hands in front of her. Waits.

She threw me down the stairs.

"You're not allowed on our porch," I inform her and pass her on the steps.

She turns to follow me with her eyes. "I thought we'd make an exception this once. Fay isn't home after all."

I don't answer. I slip my key into the lock.

"Grace, dear." Gran comes up behind me. "Can we talk? I want to tell you…how unbelievably regretful I am."

Grace, dear. Grace, dear. When am I ever Grace, dear to anyone?

Gran places a hesitant hand on my arm, her touch cool against my skin. I turn the key in the lock. The door opens. I stay closed.

"Grace, dear."

I can't stop myself. I don't stop myself. "Fine," I say and that's enough to let her in.

Gran follows me inside the house. I drop my purse and keys on the couch in the living room. I don't know what to do with Gran then. She shouldn't be in my house. She shouldn't sit down on my couch. The couch my mother paid for. And maybe Gran agrees because she doesn't sit. She surveys the room and neither of us can remember the last time she's been here.

"Do you want to sit down?" I finally offer.

"Yes," Gran replies and lowers herself gently onto the couch. She perches at its edge, hands on the knees of her white slacks. Uncomfortable and ready to spring away.

I sit far at the other end of the couch. My hands start off at my knees, but quickly fold toward myself, so I am not like her.

"I can't even begin to apologize, Grace, dear," Gran says to me. "My behavior was unfortunate and inexcusable. I never meant to harm you. I don't know what came over me, Grace. I never dreamt I was capable of such cruelty. I am very sorry, Grace, for what I've done and what I've said. I cannot take back either, but I regret them. Grace, I hope you can forgive me."

There are no words from me. I let her in too soon, too easily. I should not have let her in.

"Grace? Believe me, I am sorry. I don't know what possessed me. I would never hurt you."

I look at my grandmother. She is earnest and sincere in her pale blue eyes. She pleads with me. She doesn't need to speak it. The words are in her face all along the lines. I find my voice.

"You threw me down the stairs."

"That wasn't me," Gran protests. She reaches out. Her hand reaches out for mine. "I don't know who that was. I've never known that side of myself and I regret its emergence. I didn't know my temper. I didn't know what I was doing. My temper took control of me and I am _sorry_, Grace. It will never happen again."

"You threw me down the stairs."

"I barely remember, Grace. I don't know how I could have done such a horrible thing. I am so apologetic. You are my dear granddaughter whom I love."

And I let her take my hand.

And suddenly, it's like there isn't a bruise hiding beneath the bracelet on my wrist. Suddenly, there is no Sunday past and no attic. I never fell down the stairs. My grandmother never threw me down the stairs. It's erased. It never happened. It melts in my mind.

"I forgive you."

Gran smiles, a rare smile that is real.

"And I forgive you, too, for snooping where you did not belong."

I frown at her, but grant her that. I knew I was in the wrong. "Yes. I'm sorry about that," I tell her.

"And we'll never speak of any of it again," Grace says and smiles again. It's somewhat less real.

But that isn't what I want. I want to know things. Some things.

"But Gran…" I start. But how do I continue? I can't come out and ask about all the times Grandfather tortured her and all the letters her mother returned unopened. Nor can I ask why she sits in the attic, rereading those old letters, remembering her past life and its misery. I want to know and I don't want to know, all these things Gran's slamming the door on, locking away inside the attic, keeping me out.

Step lightly, I tell myself.

I hold out my hand to her. "Remember this?" I ask, flashing my garnet ring. "It's the one you gave Mom. She's letting me wear it."

Gran takes my hand and studies the ring. "It's lovely on you," she remarks.

"Does Aunt Corinne still have her ring?"

"You'll have to ask her."

"Do you have Aunt Margolo's?"

"That thing? No. I'm sure she lost it. She lost everything."

I take back my hand. I don't quite know what to do with Gran now. When you've forgiven someone, can you just send them away? It doesn't seem right, like it doesn't seem right that Gran's sitting in my living room where she doesn't belong. And still, I ask, "Would you like to see my bedroom? You've never seen my trophy case."

"That would be lovely."

Gran follows me up the stairs and even when she comments disdainfully about the colors my mother chose for the house, I know that I am her dear granddaughter whom she loves. And I still know it twenty minutes later when we come downstairs again. And I know it in the kitchen and out by the swimming pool. Even when Gran turns her nose up at the shrubs lining our back fence, I know it. I know who I am to someone. And I will myself to believe it.

Gran's Mercedes is parked at our curb. I walk her to it. She hugs me at the curb, slender arms wrapped around me, crossing my back to hold me. She smells of violets. She offers no more apologies. That is done. The end. We move forward now. Gran lets me go.

"Now we can start work on your summer reading again," Gran tells me. I forgot about that. Maybe Gran's missed it. "You can come over this evening."

I shrug. "I may have plans."

"You should have plans now. You shouldn't be sitting around your house alone."

Funny, considering that's Gran's favorite pastime. "I have plans. Later," I assure her. I tick off what's going on with everyone. "Emily's doing homework, Julie's playing volleyball, Dawn's babysitting, Stacey and Mary Anne are working. Mari…" I don't know what Mari's doing. "I have friends, you know. I'm not left out."

"Yes, of course. You have a busy life, but maybe I'll see you tomorrow." Gran ducks inside her Mercedes. She doesn't say so, but I hope she's missed me.

Inside the house, I make a snack of apple slices spread with peanut butter. I put on my swimsuit and eat the apples beside the pool, dangling my legs in, and sipping a pineapple soda. I finish the snack, decide against swimming, and return inside. Still in my swimsuit, I turn on the living room television, press mute, and call Mari. She isn't doing anything earth-shattering, which is the norm for Mari. She's working on a sculpture downstairs in the rec room, but knows art bores me, so spares the yawn-inducing details. She turns on her television and for the next hour, we watch the same talk show. It reminds me of last summer.

When Mari hangs up to cook dinner, I switch to MTV. I move the coffee table and try to learn the dances on the videos. In middle school, when Cokie was my best friend, this is how we spent afternoons at her house. We recorded the best videos and played them over and over until we memorized every turn, every kick, every jump. I don't think of Cokie very often anymore, but sometimes, she's better than thinking about anything else.

I forget a lot while I'm dancing.

When the telephone rings upstairs, I ignore it. I've almost gotten the finger snap just right for Corrie Lalique's latest crappy video. Upstairs, the telephone stops ringing, but just as it does, the ringing begins downstairs. I stop dancing. I realize that I'm dancing in the living room in my school swimsuit like I did when I was twelve. Private humiliation aside, I rush into the office to answer the phone.

"Hello?"

"This is Emily."

"Emily! You know my parents don't like my friends calling on this line!" I exclaim.

"This is important!" Emily cries and there's something in her voice that I past over before.

"What is it?"

"You need to come to my house!"

"Why? What's wrong?" I demand.

"Just come over! You really need to come over!" Emily's voice strains and then she slams down the phone.


	35. Chapter 35

It takes no time to reach Emily's house. Rosedale Road is quiet, aside for the screeching of my tires as I round the corner and roar up the Bernstein's drive, slamming on the brakes, squealing to a halt. I climb out of my Corvette and stand a moment behind the open door. My mind has raced nonstop since hanging up the phone. Raced all the way up the stairs, raced while I threw on my clothes, raced out the door, and all during the drive. Emily's excitable and bossy, but she isn't an alarmist. But I look around her street and can't imagine what's gone wrong. Wrong enough for such a panicked call. Emily's Toyota sits at the curb and Mr. and Mrs. Bernsteins' cars wait inside the garage. There hasn't been an accident.

I shut the Corvette door and hurry up the walk to the Bernstein's front porch. I pause at the door to listen. Maybe it's just another stupid fight, I thought all the way over here. I listen for one now, but everything inside is quiet. If Mr. Bernstein had had a heart attack, if something had happened to a Stern, there would be chaos. What's gone so wrong that its aftermath is silent? I don't knock or ring the bell to find out. I walk right into the house.

"Emily?" I call through the foyer.

"In here!" answers her voice.

I follow the sound into the living room. I find Emily seated on the couch. She isn't with her mother or her father. She isn't with Julie or even Paul. Emily's seated next to Dawn, right next to her, close to her, arms wrapped around her. Dawn's head is lowered, so her golden blonde hair cascades in front of her face, hiding what she's doing. But I hear. I hear her sobs.

"What's wrong?" I ask, so perplexed. Why is Dawn here with Emily? Why would she go to Emily to cry?

Dawn looks up, brushing back her hair, revealing a red face and matching red-rimmed eyes. The red rings dark around her bright blue eyes, so that even weeping, Dawn isn't not pretty.

"Did you have a fight with Mary Anne?" I ask, which seems the most obvious reason. But even in its obviousness, I know that's not something Emily would panic over. It's something else. There's something else.

Dawn shakes her head. She covers her face, hides from our view, and Emily rubs her back. I am the odd one out, standing as audience, gawking.

"Do you want me to tell her?" Emily asks Dawn in a gentle, motherly voice.

First, Dawn shakes her head. Then she nods.

"Dawn was babysitting for the Marshalls," Emily tells me.

"The who?"

"They live across the street," Emily says in a tone that says I should know who all her neighbors are. "In the blue and white house? Straight across the street?"

"Of course, of course," I respond, hurriedly. "The kids Mary Anne's always with. Did something happen to one of them?"

Dawn shakes her head. She brushes back her hair again. It won't stay out of her face. She inhales, a deep, deep breath and finally speaks. "Nothing happened to the kids," she says in a voice that's surprising in its steadiness. It doesn't shake. Not like her hands that rest on her knees. Her hands and her knees tremble. "It's so hard to say."

"Take your time," Emily tells her.

I hate that Emily knows and I don't. And I hate that Emily's so much better at this than I am. She has the right voice, the right touch. She's comforting. Me, I'm terrified of stepping any closer. Dawn looks like she's ripping at the seams, bursting open into a huge mess. It frightens me and I am ashamed to know that of myself. I want to side-step her mess.

But more than anything, I want to know what's happened. I sink down onto the couch beside Dawn. I don't sit too close. I don't slide my arm around her. "Please tell me," I say.

"It's so embarrassing," Dawn says with a nervous chuckle. It rings false to everyone. "I don't…I don't…I don't know how to say it now." Out of nowhere, Dawn starts to cry again. She hangs her head and sobs into her hands. Emily rubs Dawn's bare arms while making soft noises in her throat. I sit rigid like a statue.

"Mary Anne passed on a babysitting job to Dawn," Emily begins.

Dawn lifts her head and interrupts. "I can do it," she says, voice quaking now. She wipes her eyes. "I spent the afternoon playing with Nina and Eleanor," she explains. "We played with their dolls and built an indoor fort and then played outside on the swing set. I wore the girls out and they fell asleep on Eleanor's bed. So, I went downstairs to clean up our mess in the den. While I was folding the last blanket, Mr. Marshall came home from the office. He helped me finish cleaning up and when we were done he paid me."

Dawn stops for breath.

"Go on," I prompt. I don't see where this is headed.

Dawn glances at Emily first. Emily nods and Dawn takes another deep breath before continuing. "I hadn't seen Mr. Marshall in a long time. Maybe it's even been a year or two. He was really chatty and wanted to know all about California. He lived in Los Angeles for a couple years after college, he told me. We stood around the den just talking about California for quite awhile. It was…nice. I mean, to talk about California with someone who's lived there and who loved it. But then…" Dawn takes a deep breath. "It got kind of weird."

And I start to see.

Dawn sneaks another glance at Emily. Dawn doesn't look at me. "Mr. Marshall and I were laughing about something. Just something dumb. We were laughing and all of a sudden, Mr. Marshall said, 'God, you've become such a beauty.' It caught me off-guard. I said, 'thanks' because I didn't know what else to say. Mr. Marshall reached out and touched my hair. He said, 'you're so grown up,' and he stroked my hair. I froze. I couldn't say or do anything. I stood there and let him stroke my hair. Then he said, 'let's have a seat on the couch.'" Dawn stops and the tears come again, spring from her eyes and roll down her tanned cheeks.

My breath catches within my chest. Is there anything to say?

"What a creep," is what I come up with. "What did you _do_?"

"She ran out the door and over here," Emily answers.

"Well, what's being done about this? About this _pervert_?" I demand and jump up from the couch. "Where are your parents?" I look around wildly for the Bernsteins. It seems impossible that Dawn could be creating this scene inside her house and Mrs. Bernstein not be crowding her way in, demanding answers and barking orders.

"My mother's out with Mrs. Stern," Emily responds. "And my father's gone across the street to talk to Mr. Marshall. He's really upset about this. I told him what happened and he went over immediately."

"Your father's the one taking care of this?" I ask Emily. Mr. Bernstein's not the solution to any problem. He won't accomplish anything. He can't even confront Mrs. Hoffman at the bank. He can barely speak a simple sentence to his own daughter.

"It upset him," Emily says, defensively. "And someone had to go. I tried calling Mr. and Mrs. Spier at their offices, but they'd already left for the day. So, I left a message on their home answering machine, telling them to come here straight away. Then I called you. I didn't know what else to do!"

What else could she have done? I don't know.

I sit down again beside Dawn. I lower my voice, try to match it to Emily's. "I'm so sorry, Dawn," I say. My voice sounds wrong. It isn't me. It isn't right. I try again. "Are you going to be okay?" It still doesn't fit. I am not a comfort.

Dawn isn't crying anymore. She's wiped her face dry. "It was so scary," her voice trembles. "That's never happened to me before. He acted so nice. I never suspected…" Dawn stops and in an instant, her face and posture alter. "Oh, my God!" she cries. "Mary Anne!"

I look around for Mary Anne, but don't see her. Then I realize. Oh. Mary Anne. Her regular baby-sitting job. It sinks in for me and for Emily, just like it has for Dawn.

"Don't worry about Mary Anne. She wouldn't keep going back there if this happened to her," I assure Dawn.

Dawn relaxes. Somewhat. Her knees still tremble beneath her hands. "I don't know what to do," she admits.

"Don't worry about that either. Your mom and stepdad will know what to do. They'll murder Mr. Marshall for you."

Beside me, Dawn half-chuckles. It turns into a choke.

Emily pats her back. "It'll be all right," she says to Dawn.

"Why would he do this?" Dawn asks.

"Because he's sick," I answer without thought. Clearly, that's the reason.

The front door opens and Mr. Bernstein's shoes squeak across the foyer tile, so we hear him long before he shuffles into view. Mr. Bernstein appears under the archway to the living room, head lowered, but he raises it so we see him fully. He surprises me, surprises all of us. Whatever happened across the street, he's returned not appearing angry, but rather, confused.

"What did he say, Dad?" Emily immediately demands.

Mr. Bernstein opens his mouth. His face is crimson red. He motions for Emily and disappears out of the living room.

Emily glances back at us and follows her father.

Emily returns a few minutes later, red-faced like her father, but without his look of confusion. Instead, Emily's enraged. "You won't believe what that liar told my father!" she exclaims. "He said…Dawn he told my father that he _patted_ you on the head! He said that he told you that he can't believe how fast everyone's growing up and that you're turning into a beautiful young woman and that he then _patted_ you on the head! That lying liar!"

"He patted me on the head?" Dawn repeats.

"What rubbish. Like you don't know the difference between a stroke and a pat!" I cry. I crane my head toward the foyer, searching for Mr. Bernstein. He needs to come in here and tell us all that was said. He shouldn't be hiding. "Mr. Bernstein!" I call out.

Mr. Bernstein comes back into view. He still looks perplexed. And I suppose I must allow him his confusion. I've seen him pat Emily on the head. I've seen him pat Julie on the head. I've even seen him tug on Julie's ponytail. But it wasn't like that with Dawn and Mr. Marshall. It's not the same at all.

"Mr. Marshall didn't _pat_ Dawn's head," I inform Mr. Bernstein, firmly. "Tell him, Dawn."

Dawn says nothing.

The front door opens again and Mrs. Bernstein's and Mrs. Stern's voices sound in the foyer. Mrs. Stern laughs and is still laughing when she and Mrs. Bernstein come into the living room. Both stop and fall silent when they see us, Dawn seated stone-like on the couch, Emily and I with hands on our hips, all of us red-faced. Julie appears behind them, dressed in her SHS volleyball uniform, sucking on a cherry-red popsicle.

"What's wrong?" Mrs. Bernstein demands, staring at us over a paper bag clutched in her arms. "What's happened? Bernard, has something happened?"

Mr. Bernstein doesn't respond.

"Well?" Mrs. Bernstein prods.

Emily and I exchange a look and then glance over at Dawn. There's a newer redness to her cheeks, fresher, and she wipes at her face and eyes. She tries to wipe away all that her face gives away.

"Whatever is the matter?" inquires Mrs. Stern.

"Emily Elaine, what's wrong?" Mrs. Bernstein asks again. It never occurs to her that maybe it's none of her business. Maybe her interference isn't needed.

Emily glances back at Dawn and then takes a step toward her mother. "I'll tell you in the foyer," she says and walks past them. The Bernsteins and Mrs. Stern immediately go after her. Julie shoots me an inquisitive look, but follows Emily out of the room. Dawn and I are left alone. I turn to her and am lost. But I throw back my shoulders and stride forward to her. I sit down on the couch and cross my legs.

"It'll be all right now," I assure Dawn, as if the appearance of Mrs. Bernstein and Mrs. Stern magically cures everything. How? I don't know. But it seems safer with them in charge.

"I don't want them all to know," Dawn says to me. She looks over at me. The deep flush of her face spreads and clashes with the blondeness of her hair. She holds her hands to her cheeks. Just looking at her, I can feel their hotness. "It's…it's…_embarrassing_," she tells me. She drops her hands. "It wasn't when I first got here. All I could think was what could have happened had I stayed." Dawn shivers slightly.

"Don't think about that," I instruct.

In the foyer, Mrs. Bernstein shouts, "_What?_" in the loudest voice possible.

"And don't be embarrassed," I continue. "Mr. Pervert-across-the-street is the only one who deserves embarrassment. And castration."

The group from the foyer returns with Mrs. Bernstein leading the way. "Are you okay," she asks Dawn, briskly, rounding around the couch. "Are you hurt?"

"He didn't hurt her, Mom," Emily answers for Dawn. "He scared her."

"She has a tongue of her own," I snap at Emily.

But Dawn doesn't have anything to share at the moment. She sits still on the couch with her hands in her lap. Mrs. Stern comes around the back of the couch and rests her hands on Dawn's shoulders. "We'll get this straightened out, Dawn," she says and squeezes Dawn's shoulders.

"There isn't anything to straighten out. Your neighbor is a child molester. You should call the cops!" I tell them.

"That's a bit rash," replies Mrs. Stern.

"If she were hurt, it would be different," adds Mrs. Bernstein. "But Jeanie and I can go across the street and – "

"I don't think it's necessary that _I _go," interrupts Mrs. Stern. "You're much better at that sort of thing, Marian. Why don't just you go? I should really be getting home. Bill's probably looking for me." Mrs. Stern squeezes Dawn's shoulders again.

Julie hangs over the back of the couch, near Dawn's face. Her lips are bright red from the popsicle, which now drips down onto her fingers, threatening to drip onto the Bernstein's couch. "Bummer," she says to Dawn. "Sorry." And then follows her mother out.

Typical Julie.

I wait a moment before deciding to chase after her. I catch Julie and Mrs. Stern on the front steps. "Wait, Julie," I call after them.

"Yeah?" Julie responds, turning around. She licks her bright red tongue up the length of the popsicle, catching the drips.

"I don't want you talking about Dawn."

"Huh?"

I should censor myself in front of Mrs. Stern, but I ignore my usual good manners. "We both know you have a big mouth," I tell Julie. "Don't go gossiping all around town about what happened to Dawn. She isn't a sideshow freak for you to point and laugh at."

"Jeez," breathes Julie. "I'm not a _bitch_."

Julie turns away and continues down the walk with her mother. I hear Mrs. Stern say, "You do have a big mouth." I go back inside the house not feeling too bad about what I said to Julie. I remember last spring she had no mixed emotions about flapping her jaw about Dorianne Wallingford's abortion. How am I to know where she draws the line?

Back inside the house, Emily's seated on the couch beside Dawn, repeating Dawn's story for Mrs. Bernstein, who hovers at the side of the couch. Mr. Bernstein's managed to escape. We likely won't see him again. Certainly, he's found an excellent hiding spot.

"And Mr. Marshall claims he _patted _Dawn's head," Emily cries. "Of all the nonsense!"

The doorbell rings and Mrs. Bernstein leaves to answer it. Emily springs up from the couch to follow her.

"Has something happened to Dawn?" Sharon's voice rises shrilly in the foyer.

"We came as soon as we heard the message," Mr. Spier's voice follows.

On the couch, Dawn groans.

Mrs. Bernstein says something in reply that I don't quite catch. A rush of voices tag after hers and it's all mostly inaudible. Dawn and I hear snatches here and there. _Dawn says _and _inappropriate _and _across the street_ and other things that mean less than nothing. Dawn sits silently, elbows leaning on her knees. I fall back into an armchair, listening to the adults, watching Dawn.

"What are you thinking?" I finally ask. She's so different than from when I first walked in. There are no tears. The red flush has left. She's just Dawn, that's all she looks like.

Dawn shrugs.

Sharon flies into the living room, tripping momentarily in her heels. I look down to see that one is beige and the other chocolate brown. Sharon appears on the verge of hysterics, wild-eyed, mouth twisted, nostrils flaring. "Oh, Dawn!" she shrieks and drops onto the couch beside her daughter. She wraps Dawn in her arms, holds her tight. "Oh, Dawn. Oh, Dawn. I'm so sorry I wasn't there." Sharon pulls back and cups Dawn's face in her hands. "Did he hurt you?" she asks, choking back tears. "Did he?"

Dawn shakes her head.

"I'm so sorry, baby," Sharon chokes again. Her arms pull Dawn into another hug. When she releases Dawn, she rises to her feet. "Richie," she addresses Mr. Spier. "What kind of action can we take? I don't want that man near Dawn or Mary Anne again!"

"Let's not jump so far ahead," replies Mr. Spier. "First thing first, we need to talk to Mr. Marshall. I'd like to hear what he has to say. And I'd like to hear straight from Dawn what happened. We need to sort this out before doing anything else."

"Richie!" shrieks Sharon.

Mr. Spier raises his hand. "I'm just as upset as you are, Sharon. But we need to get the facts straight. Mr. Marshall and Dawn are telling two different stories and we – "

"Well, of course, he'd lie!" Sharon shouts. "You think he'd admit to…to…to hitting on a seventeen year old?" Sharon's eyes well up, but she doesn't let the tears roll out.

"If my husband would come downstairs…" Mrs. Bernstein begins, gesturing up at the ceiling. She doesn't finish her sentence. She thinks better of it and says, "Well, you should talk to Don Marshall yourselves. But I wouldn't believe any – "

"See?" snaps Sharon.

"Calm down," Mr. Spier says, impatiently.

"I think I made a mistake."

All eyes turn to Dawn.

"What?" someone asks. Maybe it's me.

"I think I made a mistake," Dawn repeats.

"A mistake about what, Dawn?" asks Mr. Spier.

"A mistake about Mr. Marshall. I think maybe what he told Mr. Bernstein was true. Maybe he did pat my head. I might have been wrong."

Emily's jaw drops. Mine would follow if any part of my mind or body worked. I can't move or speak. It's like all the words and motions have been knocked out of me.

"That's an awfully big mistake to make," says Mrs. Bernstein, helpful as always.

"Dawn…what exactly are you saying?" asks Sharon.

A faint flush returns to Dawn's cheeks. She stares at her mother, at her audience, for a moment before answering, "I may have misinterpreted what happened. I think I got freaked out and jumped to the wrong conclusion."

Mr. Spier nods. "All right, Dawn. It's brave of you to say that now, before things get out of hand." He shoots a look at Sharon, who glares back. "Why don't you gather your belongings, Dawn, and the three of us will go over to the Marshalls. We'll talk this out." Mr. Spier turns to Mrs. Bernstein. "Thank you for looking after Dawn. I apologize about the scene we've caused." He extends his hand and Mrs. Bernstein accepts it with the queerest expression on her face. For possibly the first time in her life, she has nothing to say.

"We have a lot to talk about," Sharon tells Dawn, slipping an arm around Dawn's waist to guide her out.

"You didn't make a mistake," Emily hisses at Dawn.

I stand behind Emily, unsure of my place. "Dawn…" I start, but can't imagine how I should finish.

Mr. Spier places his hand on Sharon's back, but she shakes him off. She and Dawn leave in front of him and he trails after with more vague apologies for Mrs. Bernstein. The front door shuts behind the Schafer-Spiers and through the curtains, Emily and I watch them cross the street and head up the Marshall's front walk.

"Well!" Mrs. Bernstein exclaims behind us. And she stomps off into the kitchen. She returns right away. "Stay away from the Marshalls!" she commands. "I don't want you even looking in their direction, Emily Elaine. Mistake my left foot!" And then Mrs. Bernstein disappears into the kitchen again.

It takes a moment for me to explode.

"What is wrong with Dawn?" I shriek.

"Don't yell in my face!" Emily shrieks back.

"Well, aren't you angry?" I demand. I want to kick something. Where's one of Emily's mangy cats?

"Of course I am! We feed the Marshall's cat when they're away!"

I ignore the absurdity of her comment. "Dawn wouldn't have been that upset if she wasn't sure what happened. Why would she back down?"

"Maybe because it's better than believing the alternative."

I listen to Emily's words echo in my head.

"I have to go home," I tell her. I retrieve my purse from the living room just in time to see Mr. Bernstein sneaking down the stairs. A lot of help he was.

I wish I didn't have my car. I wish I could run.

I drive home with my legs twitching the entire way. The garage door is up when I pull into the driveway and into the garage beside my parents' Lexus. I turn off the car and sit a minute, turning the day over in my mind. It's not even dark yet. So much crammed itself into the daylight hours. Gran and her apology seem so long ago.

I lower the garage door before going into the kitchen, where I discover Dad sitting at the kitchen table, eating microwave macaroni and reading the mail. His back is to me and he says, "Good evening, Grace," without turning around and without putting down the mail.

"Hi, Dad," I answer, dropping my purse on the counter and heading for the refrigerator. I take out a pineapple soda and pop the tab.

"How was your day?"

I hesitate. "Fine."

Dad doesn't tear his attention from the phone bill. "Good, good," he says, vaguely.

I take a few sips of soda, hovering around. I should have stayed with Emily. We could have talked about the Dawn situation. It would have helped. I didn't need to run away. I don't always need to run away.

"I was over at Emily's," I tell Dad.

"Good, good," Dad replies, opening another bill.

I wonder how Emily could tell her father about Dawn and Mr. Marshall. I can't tell my father. I can't say, _Oh, Dad, today, a grown man tried to make out with Dawn while his children slept upstairs. _I wonder how Emily broke the news to her father. Not gently or with ease, I suppose.

I leave the kitchen and take myself and my pineapple soda into the living room. Mom's in the office leaning against her desk, the telephone cradled between her shoulder and her ear. She waves to me and keeps talking. She's wearing a new dress of a deep emerald green material with a short skirt and black belt. She laughs into the telephone receiver and it's a joyous, breathless laugh. I have such a beautiful mother. I wonder what she'd do if I walked in and said that Mr. Marshall stroked my hair.

"Hello, Grace," Mom greets me when she hangs up the phone. She goes around to her desk chair and slides into it. "You left the garage door open this afternoon. And the kitchen door unlocked. You shouldn't do that. It's dangerous." Mom opens a file on her desk.

"I'm sorry."

"It's quite all right. Just be more careful next time."

I wait a beat. "I forgot because Emily called me in a panic."

"Why? Did Marian fall off her high horse and hurt herself?"

"No," I answer and wait for Mom to ask. She doesn't. She keeps reading.

"Mom? Do you know the Marshalls on Rosedale Road?"

Mom makes a mark on the open page, then turns to the next one. "No. Should I?"

I lean against the door frame. I wish she'd look at me. "They live across the street from Emily and Mary Anne babysits their children. Dawn babysat for them this afternoon and Mr. Marshall made a pass at her."

Mom finally looks at me. "What?" she asks in a funny, startled voice.

"He touched her hair and told her she's beautiful."

"He touched her hair?"

I walk farther into the office and rest my hands on the desk. "Actually, he stroked it," I clarify. I'm seeing the huge difference between _stroke, pat, _and _touch._ "He started stroking her hair and then asked her to sit on the couch with him."

Mom sets down her pen. "Good God."

I ignore her swear. "Dawn's real upset," I tell Mom and even though I didn't plan to, I drop part of the truth. I don't tell Mom about Dawn changing her mind. How would that look to Mom when she doesn't like Dawn already, for no good reason? Mom's listening to me now and so I leave things where they are.

"I hope she told her parents," Mom says.

"Of course."

Mom sits straighter in her chair, regarding me, thinking. "This person lives across the street from the Bernsteins?" she asks me.

"Yes."

"I don't want you going over there anymore then," Mom tells me and picks up her pen again. "Or to Julie's either."

My jaw drops. "Mom!" I cry.

"If there's a child rapist on Rosedale Road then I don't want my child on Rosedale Road," Mom replies and makes another mark in her file. "Your friends can come over here. We have a pool. What does Emily's house have, other than Bernard and Marian?"

"You're being unfair! And really dumb! It's not like it was Mr. Bernstein putting the moves on Dawn! It was some gross neighbor, who I've never spoken to in my life, who I've never even seen in my life!"

"Hey! What's going on in here?" comes Dad's voice behind me.

"I'm ruining Grace's life again," Mom explains. She thinks she's so funny.

"Yes and being a complete bitch again, too!" I shout and hurry out of the office and up the stairs.

Behind me, Mom yells, "Why am I always the villain!" to me or to Dad or to us both.

Who cares.

I slam my bedroom door behind me. I can't breathe. I walk the length of the room and turn back again. Mom and her stupid new rules. Don't see Dawn. Don't go to Emily's. Don't go to Julie's. _Don't do anything but sit in this house and be invisible._ I almost cry, but fight the urge. I suppress it, shove it down. If I can't go to Emily's or Julie's, where will I go? I can't move into the mall. It's not the same having them here. When they're here, they see my house, see my life and if they stay too long, they see my parents downing their fifth and sixth cocktails.

Mom storms into my bedroom. "When you call me a bitch, you lose the courtesy of a knock," she informs me. "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with _me_? I tried to talk to you and you acted like a militant dictator!"

"What are you talking about? I listened to you and then I made a reasonable request as your mother."

"That wasn't a request! That was an order, Mrs. Stalin!"

Mom stands as tall as possible. Usually, we're eye to eye, but her stilettos allow her to tower above me. "I am your mother, in case you've forgotten. I'm sick and tired of coming home from work and having to listen to you screech and scream at me. I wake up at the crack of dawn, ride into the stinking, disgusting city where I work hard all day, listening to the whining, petty complaints of morons and cleaning up their stupid messes. I do all this so you can drive a Corvette and wear designer clothes and lay around a gorgeous goddamned swimming pool all summer. I think I deserve a little respect and a little obedience."

"I'm not a dog, Mother! And all I wanted was to talk to you about what happened to Dawn! Why can't you just listen to me!"

Mom places her hands on her hips. "Well, I thought that's what I did."

"You listened for ninety seconds! That doesn't count!"

"I didn't realize you had a stopwatch."

I go into the closet and shut the door. I bury my face in my ski parka and scream.

Mom knocks on the closet door. "I'm knocking," she calls to me. I don't respond, so she opens the door and walks in. She flicks on the light. "All right, Grace. I'm listening. What else did you have to say?"

She's too late. Always too late.

I shrug.

"Then why are you so upset?"

I shrug again.

Mom sighs. "I remember being a teenager, but I don't remember ever being like this," she says. "Will you stay away from Rosedale Road for a few days at least? I'll…call Jeanie. Yes, I'll call Jeanie and talk to her. Is that fair enough?"

"Fine."

"I only want to protect you, Grace. You're my daughter."

I cross my arms and nod, but I don't look at my mother. Mom touches my right forearm. Just a flutter of a touch. Then she turns to leave the closet.

"Mom? Why would he do that to Dawn?"

"Because he thought he could get away with it," Mom responds and then leaves.

I change out of my shorts and tank top and the swimsuit underneath. I put on sweat shorts and running shoes and quickly stretch in my bedroom. The twitch has returned to my legs. I've got to move. Downstairs, Mom and Dad pour drinks in their office. I tell them where I'm going and Mom doesn't comment. She waves me on. I'm sorry and I'm not sorry that I called her a bitch. Again.

I run the few blocks to Dawn's house. It's dark out now, but there are still a few kids riding their bikes in the street. I wonder if child rapists roam the streets after dark. I bet Mom never thought of that.

I run across Dawn's lawn, hopping over Tigger on the front steps. I ring the bell, only once so Sharon doesn't scold me. Jeff answers, grunts a greeting, and let's me inside. He points toward the living room, then heads upstairs.

Dawn's alone in the living room, eating a rice cake and watching t.v. She nods when she sees me, not surprised that I came. "Hey," she greets me.

"Hi. What're you watching?"

"_I Love Lucy_."

"Ugh! Turn that off."

She does. Tossing the remote aside, she says, "So…what's up?"

I sink down into an overstuffed armchair. "Just thought I'd check on you. What's, you know, going on?"

Dawn shrugs.

I begin to understand my mother's earlier annoyance.

I dive in. "Why did you tell your mom and stepdad that you made a mistake?"

"Um…well….I don't know. I mean, I know why I said it. I said it because maybe I did make one. I might have overreacted."

"Dawn, I saw you after it happened. That wasn't an overreaction. You were freaked out."

"It all happened so fast, Grace. I don't really remember exactly what happened now. It's all a blur. We talked to Mr. Marshall and what he said made sense. I think I misinterpreted the situation. He's sorry about the misunderstanding and seemed concerned that I'd think that of him. It was a mistake."

"And your mom and stepdad?"

"Mom's still upset. She's on the phone with Granny right now. Mom believes me, but the idea unnerved her. Richard says I did the right thing. He says it's important to talk things out and admit when you were wrong. Mom and Richard don't want me sitting for the Marshalls again, which wouldn't happen anyway because Mrs. Marshall said I'm not welcome back. But Richard doesn't want Mary Anne sitting for them either, for a while, until everyone calms down. He's upstairs with her now."

"I think you were right to begin with. You didn't misinterpret anything. That guy's a creep and he shouldn't get away with this. Emily believes your original story and so do her parents."

"I don't know. I think I made a mistake."

How can she not know? It shouldn't be a gray area. It's black or white. He stroked her hair. He asked her to sit with him on the couch. What else could it be? She shouldn't brush it off. She shouldn't make it a wishy-washy matter. It happened or it didn't happen. And I know it happened.

Why isn't Dawn so sure?

"I think the mistake you made was in changing your story," I tell Dawn.

"Just drop it, Grace. I'm all talked out on the subject."

Mr. Spier comes downstairs then, holding his glasses in his hand and shaking his head while rubbing his eyes. He barely acknowledges me before disappearing into the kitchen. Sharon's voice rises as soon as the door shuts behind him.

"Let's go up to my room," Dawn says, hurriedly. "WSTO's call-in show just started and you can help me pack. It's never too early to start packing. I wish I was packing to go home though. I can't wait to get back to California."

Something heavy sinks inside me. It's like I swallowed a rock.

When we reach the top of the staircase, Mary Anne's standing in the doorway to her bedroom. She stares at us with lips pursed and fire in her dark eyes. She sets her glare on Dawn.

"You are such a liar," she spits out and then slams her bedroom door.


	36. Chapter 36

It's early rising on Saturday morning. Even though Mom and Dad have no trouble waking early, I am another story. My alarm goes off at five forty-five and I immediately hit the snooze. And again. Mom bustles in right as the time flips to six on the dot. She shakes my shoulder and says, "Come on, get up. We need to be at Dawn's by seven," and then leaves the room. I don't move. Dad comes in a couple minutes later, flicks on the light and says, "Hurry up and get a move on," which I also ignore. It's six-oh-eight when Mom returns, throws back my blankets and firmly says, "Up, up, up. Right now," and smacks my bare arm with her open palm.

"Ow! That hurt!" I whine.

"No, it didn't," Mom replies. "And you're awake now."

Mom leaves and I roll out of bed. I stumble into the bathroom and disrobe, still half-asleep, and step into the shower. I wash my face three times until I feel fully awake. I turn slowly beneath the warm spray, relishing the early morning quiet and my waking thoughts. Until my mother's voice barks, "Hurry up, Grace! No marathon showers today!"

"Do you mind?" I shout in irritation and the bathroom door closes hard in reply.

In the weeks since our Fiji trip, I'd forgotten how militant my mother is about schedules. I don't know how Dad stands her every morning.

I finish in the shower, quick as possible, and jump out, toweling off in a rush. I should keep a tally as to how many times Mom scolds me this morning. I wrap the towel tightly around myself and switch on the hairdryer. At least the sound will drown out my mother should she decide to pop in again. I brush out my hair when it's almost completely dry. That's good enough. I brush it back and wrap a hair band around my wrist. I notice, as I do so, that the bruise Gran left there has gone. It's erased from my skin. Like it never happened.

I push it from my mind as I begin French braiding my hair. I wrap the hair band around the braid's end and then turn away from the mirror. I turn away because there are other things to do besides mope and pout and fret. It's done and today I move forward.

I dress casually in jean shorts and a fitted lilac-colored tee. I still am uncertain as what to expect in the Hamptons and if I'm wrong, I've packed my largest suitcase. I can change as needed. It's six fifty-five when I lug my suitcase into the hallway. Dad appears at the top of the stairs in chinos and a light blue-striped shirt and his panama hat. I thought I hid that after Fiji.

"I'll take that, Grace," Dad offers, swinging the suitcase like it's full of air.

"Are you wearing that hat?" I ask.

"Of course. It's my vacation hat," Dad answers and heads downstairs.

I will die if my friends see him in that dorky hat. But before I can protest, Dad's gone. I start down the stairs with my purse and cosmetics case and meet Mom when I reach the bottom.

"Finally!" she says when she sees me. She looks much different than usual. She's wearing dark jeans and a lime green polo shirt and white tennis shoes. She looks so much like a mother. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she asks, but rushes on. "Are all the upstairs lights turned out? I'll check. Wait in the car with Hal." Mom bounds up the stairs.

In the garage, the Wallingford's minivan sits in the spot usually occupied by the Lexus. Dad slams down the trunk just as I enter the garage. I climb into one of the middle seats, setting my purse and cosmetics case beside me. The Wallingford's minivan has two front seats, two middle seats, and a bench seat for three in the far back. Dawn and I decided last night that we would sit in the far back, so that the three of us would be together. Then, no one would be left out.

Mom hops into the passenger seat just as Dad starts the minivan. She turns around to look at me. I can't see much of her face behind her enormous sunglasses. "Got everything?" she asks me.

"Yep," I reply with a nod.

Dad backs out of the garage and onto the street, heading toward Burnt Hill Road. Mom puts down her visor and checks her reflection in the mirror. "You don't think anyone will recognize me in this godforsaken mini-monstrosity?" she asks no one in particular. Mom almost had a seizure when Dad pulled into the garage last night in the Wallingford's minivan. The minivan was bad enough, but she didn't expect the JIMNDOT personalized license plate, the _My Daughter Is a CHEERLEADER at Stoneybrook High School _bumper sticker, the Mickey Mouse antennae ball, or the Tinkerbell decals on the windows. She pretended to puke behind my Corvette. Then she hid the antennae ball in the glove compartment. There wasn't anything she could do about the rest.

"Not if we don't call attention to ourselves, my dear," Dad answers and then honks the horn and waves at Mr. and Mrs. Black as they jog past with their yellow lab.

"I hate you," says Mom.

It's almost seven fifteen when we pull up in the Schafer-Spier's driveway. Dawn and her mom come out before Dad's even stopped the van. Mr. Spier follows after them, glancing at his watch.

"Oh, honestly," Mom grumbles.

All three of us leave the van. Dad and Mr. Spier greet each other and shake hands. Dad shakes hands with Sharon next and Mom with Mr. Spier. Dawn and I stand back, each waiting for what passes between my mother and her mother. Some clue. Mom and Sharon don't extend their hands, but exchange a casual _Hello, Sharon _and _Hello, Fay_. Then Mom walks away and opens the back of the minivan and Sharon begins fussing with the back of Dawn's shorts, insisting that they're gapping. Dawn escapes as fast as possible.

Mary Anne never makes an appearance.

"Thanks a lot for inviting me," Dawn says to my parents once we're inside the van and backing down the driveway. "I've really been looking forward to this."

"You're welcome," Mom answers without turning around.

Dawn wipes her brow with mock exaggeration. "Whew! I'm glad to be out of there," she whispers to me, then giggles. "I never thought this day would come." Dawn giggles again.

A giggle escapes my lips unexpectedly. I cover my mouth and then whisper back, "This is going to be so much fun."

"Hey! What's all the whispering back there?" Dad calls to us. "Is this how it's going to be the entire trip? All whispers and giggles?"

Dawn leans in close and whispers, "Your dad's hat is _great."_

We've dissolved into a giggling mess by the time Dad turns onto Rosedale Road.

Dawn goes quiet when we pull into the Bernstein's driveway. Maybe I should have planned better. We should have picked Emily up first. Why don't I think?

Emily waits for us on the front porch, seated on the porch swing. She stands and waves, then goes inside the house through the open front door. She comes out again with her parents in tow, Mr. Bernstein carrying her suitcase, grinning and looking like a woodchuck.

Dawn looks over her shoulder, out of the tinted back windshield at the Marshall house. "I'll wait here," she tells me.

"Okay," I say, easily, and unfasten my seatbelt and slip out of the van. Dad's already out, helping Mr. Bernstein load Emily's suitcase into the trunk. Mom doesn't budge from her seat.

"Hey, Emily," I greet her.

"Hi, Grace," Emily replies, tossing her bookbag into the van. "Hi, Dawn."

Mrs. Bernstein's behind Emily, in the middle of a speech Emily's ignoring. "Don't forget to take your vitamins," she tells Emily. "And don't stay out after dark. Don't talk to strange men or normal-looking men, or actually, any men at all. You never know, Emily Elaine. And stay out of the water, even if there's a lifeguard on duty. Listen to the Mr. and Mrs. Blume and don't go into town without them. Don't go outside without sunscreen or a hat and don't walk barefoot on the beach. And don't…."

My mother rolls down her window. "Hello, Marian," she says, tightly. "Would you like us to put Emily in a plastic bubble?"

Mrs. Bernstein regards my mother. "Of course not," she says, grouchily, and walks away.

Mom rolls her window up again.

"Dad! What's taking so long!" Emily demands, rushing around to the back of the van, where my father and Mr. Bernstein are rearranging the luggage. It's a tight fit since Mom insisted on bringing two large suitcases, a cosmetics case, her briefcase, and a garment bag. There's only so much room.

"Don't smash my bag, Dad!" Emily orders.

Finally, Dad and Mr. Bernstein decide to store Emily's suitcase and Dawn's duffel bag in the middle seats. It's a much better fit then and the trunk door actually closes. Mrs. Bernstein rattles off a long list of instructions for my father regarding what Emily is and is not allowed to do. Basically, it boils down to that Emily is not allowed to have fun _ever._ I climb back into the minivan, hoping that Mrs. Bernstein will get the hint and shut up. It doesn't work.

"Mom!" Emily finally interrupts. "We need to go!"

Mrs. Bernstein purses her lips into a very thin line, but leans in to give Emily a hug. Mr. Bernstein hugs her next, holding her hard, and kisses her forehead. I watch until I have to look away.

Emily jumps into the van and waves to her parents. I settle back into my seat and begin searching for my seatbelt. It was here a minute ago. "You have to slide the door shut. Hard," I tell Emily.

"Wait! Wait for me! I'm coming, too!"

Emily leans out the van door and Dawn and I leap up and crowd behind her. Outside, Stacey McGill races across the Bernstein's lawn, suitcase in hand, purse beating against her side. Mrs. McGill's station wagon sits at the curb, parked crookedly behind Emily's Toyota.

"Wait!" Stacey calls again, as if my father might actually slam on the accelerator, leaving her behind and shouting, while Emily, Dawn, and I hang out the door.

Stacey reaches the van and stops, standing beside Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein, breathing hard. "Let me catch my breath," she says.

"That winded you?" I ask her. "It's not like you just ran from your house. You're in terrible shape!"

Stacey pretends I didn't speak. "Can I still come to the Hamptons?" she asks, directing her question to everyone, not necessarily at me. Mrs. McGill jogs up behind Stacey, sloppily dressed in sweatpants and one of Stacey's math club t-shirts, hair clipped messily atop her head. Mom finally gets out of the minivan, just as Emily and I hop out, too.

"We tried to call," Mrs. McGill explains, apologetically.

"You'd already left," Stacey adds. "Then I called Mary Anne's and Mary Anne said you'd already gone from there, too. We hoped we'd get lucky and catch you here."

So, Mary Anne was home. Ha! Nice of her to say goodbye. "Mary Anne gave you permission to come?" I ask Stacey.

Stacey offers me a brief glare, then gives her attention to my mother. "May I still come, Mrs. Blume? My plans just changed."

"Of course," Mom replies. "Let's see if we can fit your suitcase in the back."

Mr. Bernstein opens the back of the van just as Dad gets out again. They begin moving the luggage again, grumbling to each other.

"I'm really sorry about this, Fay," Mrs. McGill apologizes. "Stacey's father called just this morning. I hate to be as discourteous as that man but – " Mrs. McGill is quickly silenced by a deathly look from Stacey.

Stacey climbs into the minivan and the seating arrangement quickly changes. Emily abandons Dawn and I to move to the middle with Stacey. Dawn's duffel bag and Emily's suitcase get the boot and end up scrunched in Emily's old seat between Dawn and I. Outside the minivan, Mrs. McGill gives Mom long-winded instructions about Stacey's diet and medication. Stacey looks annoyed. I don't blame her, but I don't blame Mrs. McGill either. I remember last summer when Stacey got so sick while on vacation in Vermont. Everyone thought she might die.

"I'm glad that you could come after all," I tell Stacey.

Stacey looks back at me and smiles. "Thanks."

After what seems like far too much time to load luggage, Stacey's suitcase ends up in the trunk and Emily's suitcase in Dawn's seat by the window. Dawn moves into Emily's vacated center seat. And Dawn's duffel bag gets stashed behind Mom's seat, sort of in the way and out of the way at the same time.

"Shopping is banned on this trip," Dad says before he slams the trunk shut.

Mr. Bernstein thinks this is hilarious.

Finally, everyone and everything is safely loaded in the minivan. Mr. Bernstein slides the passenger door shut and we wave goodbye to the Bernsteins and Mrs. McGill. As Dad backs out of the driveway, Mrs. McGill yells something we can't hear. Mom rolls down her window and shouts, "What?" and Mrs. McGill calls back, "Have fun and be careful!"

Stacey groans. "She's so embarrassing."

"You think?" I reply. "Have you seen my dad's hat?"

"What about my hat?" Dad asks.

"My dad liked that hat," Emily tells us.

"Take the hat off now, Dad! Take it off!"

Emily turns around and smacks me with her purse.

"Can I be let out at the corner?" Stacey asks.

"Is this what the whole trip will be like?" Mom sighs.

Everyone shuts up.

My mother could at least pretend to be fun.

Dad gets on the I-95 and we're headed for Bridgeport and the ferry that will take us across to the Hamptons. As soon as we're on the freeway, Mom takes out her laptop and fills the car with a tickity-tapping sound. I furrow my brow at the back of her seat. Mom and Dad promised last night, no working while in the Hamptons. I start to protest, but think better of it. Not in front of my friends. I won't make a scene for them to whisper about in private. Besides, I already know what Mom will say. _We're not in the Hamptons yet. I haven't broken any promises._ So, I sit back, relax, and switch my thoughts to something else.

In front of me, Emily and Stacey are catching up on the last few days. I haven't seen much of Emily since the incident on Wednesday, or much of Dawn either. The thing with Mr. Marshall had us shaken, an awkward bridge temporarily between us. Emily and I went about our own lives, dealing with it in our own ways. Dawn mostly wanted to be left alone.

She still can't say for sure what happened.

I saw Stacey on Friday evening at Pizza Express. Mari and I were sharing a pizza after a long workout on Gran's tennis court. Stacey was picking up a pizza for her and Mrs. McGill. She sat with Mari and I while waiting for her order. If Mary Anne told her anything about Dawn's accusations, she didn't let on. I can only assume that Stacey's in the dark and I almost feel bad for her about that. I listen to her now, talking on and on about her summer classes at Stoneybrook University, which Emily seems to find fascinating. I've not seen much of Stacey this summer, much less than usual.

We reach the Bridgeport ferry in a little over an hour. Once we're loaded onto the ferry, we leave the minivan to stretch our legs. It's a beautiful, sunny day and we head straight for the outside deck. Emily and I have never ridden a ferry and we'd like to go exploring, but Mom insists we stay in sight. It's slightly irritating, but at least she and Dad don't hover. They remain across the deck from us, keeping an eye on us while expertly pretending not to know us. We give them the same courtesy. Dad quickly strikes up a conversation with a dowdy, middle-aged couple and Mom cringes when he introduces themselves as "Jim 'n Dot".

Stacey leans back against the railing, arms spread wide. She sniffs the air and smiles, satisfied. She looks the picture of the Hamptons, how I imagine it in my head. Her wavy blonde hair blows in the breeze as she tilts her face skyward. She dressed for the day in white peddlepushers and a loose strapless top in a gorgeous shiny royal blue. I mistepped with my ensemble.

"My father took me to Fire Island one summer," Stacey tells us. "I wonder if Westhampton Beach will be anything like it."

"Oh, please," I snort. "It will be so much better."

Dawn hasn't said much since Stacey's unexpected arrival, but now ventures to say, "I've not been to many East Coast beaches, but I've heard that Westhampton's are superb. I can't imagine it'll be more amazing than California though."

"Hardly anything is," Stacey replies a bit snottily. She surprises us and perhaps herself. She doesn't look like she meant to sound that way. But her intent doesn't matter. She's put that tone out there and into the world.

Dawn looks out over the water and doesn't say anything.

I'm not so sure Stacey should have come after all.

"I thought you were supposed to visit your father," I ask Stacey and it's probably to get back at her.

Stacey's taken aback. She recovers and realizes my intent. "Maybe I shouldn't have come," she says.

"That's not what Grace meant, Stace," Emily jumps in. "We're all just wondering what happened to your plans and Grace is being unnecessarily rude about it." Emily the diplomat gives me a nasty don't-ruin-my-vacation look.

"That's right," I agree.

Stacey looks uncomfortable. "Oh…well…Dad canceled," she replies. She stares at her right arm, stretched out over the railing. There's a hint of color in her cheeks. "He called this morning as Mom and I were getting ready to leave for the train station. Dad has to fly to Cleveland this afternoon for an emergency meeting Monday morning. He was supposed to have cleared his schedule for me. There will be other weekends."

With Mr. McGill, there are always other weekends. Those weekends just never seem to roll around.

"You'll have more fun with us anyway," Emily assures Stacey. "Fathers are so dorky." She jerks her thumb in the direction of Dad and his panama hat.

I roll my eyes. There aren't enough hours in the day for me to get started on _her_ father.

"It's no big deal," Stacey says. She turns away from us and leans over the railing with Dawn, staring down into the water. They stand a distance apart, all long tanned limbs and golden hair whipping in the wind. They look like they belong together. Emily takes out her camera and snaps a picture. It's an odd moment for her to want to remember.

When we reach Port Jefferson, it's a bit of a wait getting the minivan off the ferry. The moment Dad pulls out onto dry land everyone in the backseats cheer. Mom puts away her laptop and takes out a map. We hit a small traffic jam early on, but once we're out of it, it's smooth driving. Mom navigates, Dad drives, and the rest of us chatter happily. All the tension and awkwardness from before evaporates. We bubble over with excitement.

"Look at that cute roadside stand!" Dawn exclaims, leaning over me.

"Did you see those tomatoes?" Stacey asks her. "They were as big as my head!"

"Ah, maybe not quite_ that_ big. More like the size of Emily's," I correct.

"Hey!" Stacey and Emily shout together.

"Even better," Dawn cries, "look at that hunk at the side of the road!" Dawn leans over me again, pointing to a shirtless guy standing on the corner, backpack at his feet, thumb extended toward the road.

"Oh, gross, Dawn! He probably hasn't bathed in weeks!" I shriek.

"You're such a snob." Dawn falls back into her own seat. "My friend Sunny met one of her boyfriends when we picked him up near the Santa Monica beach."

"Sunny's still super classy," Stacey says, not turning around.

Like Stacey's one to talk. I know all about her, even if she doesn't know I know.

Dawn takes the comment in stride and goes back to looking out the window. Emily barrels straight over the setting strain to point out a woman pumping gas in a thong. Then I spot three little boys, lined in a row, peeing at the side of the road. Soon, we're all shouting out weird things we pass by until the noise in the van is deafening. It quickly downward spirals into silliness with space aliens on mopeds and bearded ladies pulling wagons. I don't know how my parents stand us.

"Westhampton Beach!" Stacey shrieks, lunging across Emily, arm outstretched, pointing at the sign.

We cheer.

Dad slows considerably as we drive through what must be the Main Street area. The streets are lined with restaurants and boutiques and other little shops. Stacey has her face practically glued to the glass as she drinks in the window displays. My feet are already itching to hit Main Street and exercise my credit cards. I wonder how soon we can start shopping.

"There's Anna Stevenson!" Emily shouts as we roll past a sidewalk café.

"And Kristy!" Dawn adds.

I turn around for a better look, but Dad's sped up and they're out of sight.

We leave Westhampton Beach village and enter the residential area, winding through streets lined with summer homes of all sizes. Mom's put away the map and instead reads to Dad from a sheet of Fiona Fee letterhead. Stacey rolls down her window and outside, we hear and smell the ocean.

"Make a sharp right, Hal," Mom instructs and Dad obeys. The minivan heads up an incline and then curves around a corner, following the sound of the ocean. "That's it, Hal," she says and Dad slows the van.

We lean forward, angling for a clearer view of Fiona Fiore's Hampton home, our home for the next few days. "You've got to be kidding me," Stacey breathes.

The home sitting in front of us is monstrous. It isn't a summer house as Mom's been calling it for a week. It's a summer estate. A summer fortress. The bushes and trees bordering the driveway are a tad overgrown, but no amount of foliage could hide this place. White wooden steps lead up to a wraparound porch. The house itself is stark white and modern-looking, box-like with odd angles. The house looks like it may go on forever.

We scramble out of the van and head straight to the porch, rushing around the side. We find ourselves staring out over the ocean.

"No way," gasps Dawn.

The house doesn't sit right on the beach, but above it, so we look down on the ocean. But the beach is just a leap away. We have it in full view. There's a white staircase winding down from the second floor and Stacey's runs up its steps. Near the top, she hangs over the railing, calling down to us, "There's a pool up here! It looks right onto the ocean!"

We need a whole week here. No. I want to _live_ here.

"Girls!" Mom's voice calls for us. She appears on the porch, holding Dad's car keys. "Don't you want to see inside?" she asks.

Of course we do.

Mom unlocks the front door and jumps back, so we won't trample her. We tumble into the house, falling into each other. We hurry through the tiled foyer and into a formal sitting room and then into a living room. From there, we splinter off, Dawn and I going to the left, Stacey and Emily going to the right.

"There's a sauna!" Emily shouts to us.

"And an exercise room!" Dawn shouts back.

"Gourmet kitchen!"

"Library!"

"Sun porch!"

"Indoor tennis court!"

"_Indoor tennis court_?" I squeal.

"Just kidding!" Stacey laughs.

We meet again in the foyer, where Dad's brought some of the luggage. Dawn goes outside to help him while Stacey, Emily, and I show Mom the downstairs, even though she's been here before. When Dawn returns with her duffel bag slung over her shoulder and one of Mom's suitcases dragging behind her, we head upstairs. Upstairs has only bedrooms – two master suites and three regular-sized rooms. One of the master suites is Fiona Fiore's private rooms and Mom lets us walk through, but she won't let anyone sleep there. My parents claim the master suite at the other end of the hall. It has a balcony that leads to the swimming pool and a hot tub.

"Where are we going to sleep?" Stacey asks me.

"Yeah, there are only three bedrooms and four of us," says Emily.

I glance at Mom, but she shrugs and says, "Work it out," and heads downstairs, calling for my father.

"Well, obviously, two people will have to double up," I tell them. "And since I'm the reason you're all here in the first place, I should get my own room." Clearly.

"That's fair," Dawn says, although Emily and Stacey don't appear too thrilled. We're all only children. We aren't used to sharing.

Stacey and Emily glance at each other then at Dawn. Obviously, they'll have to share with each other, or one of them must pair with Dawn. Stacey looks a little uncomfortable, either because of Dawn or because she knows that if she hadn't come, this wouldn't be an issue.

"I'll share with Emily," Stacey says, just as Emily says, "I'll share with Stace."

No one wants Dawn. I understand what that feels like.

I choose the bedroom at the end of the hall and Dawn takes the one next door. Emily and Stacey are across the hall. We bring our suitcases upstairs and agree to unpack before exploring. My bedroom's decorated in baby pink and white stripes with dark wood furniture. It looks like a girl's room, but Fiona Fiore doesn't have a daughter. I wonder whom the room was meant for.

"Hey!" Dawn cries, popping out of my bathroom.

"How'd you do that?" I demand.

"Look!" Dawn motions for me to come into the bathroom.

I poke my head in. At the other end of the spacious bathroom, a door opens into Dawn's violet-patterned bedroom.

"It's a Jack-and-Jill bathroom," Dawn tells me.

I'm disappointed that I won't have my own bathroom. I've always had my own bathroom. But Dawn looks so happy to be sharing something with someone that I feign excitement. After all, there are two sinks and plenty of counter space. It's not like I planned to live in the bathroom.

Emily races into my room. "We have a Jacuzzi tub!" she cries. "Do you have a Jacuzzi tub?"

Dawn and I rush to our own tub. It's a Jacuzzi.

"This is awesome!" Emily shrieks and runs back to tell Stacey.

Dawn finishes unpacking first and comes into my room to help me. Every so often, one of us wanders to the window to look out at the partial ocean view. Dawn looks not like herself while at the window. There's something funny about her face, something thoughtful or even…wistful.

I hurry with my unpacking and we move to Stacey and Emily's room. It seems they've spent most of their time talking and giggling. There's hardly anything hanging in the closet or folded in the drawers. It's all stacked in heaps inside their suitcases and on the bed. Stacey and Emily are standing at their open window, waving and yelling silly things to the people on the beach. They have a better ocean view than I.

"Want some help?" offers Dawn, picking up a dress of Stacey's. It's a sleeveless, satiny forest green and all wrong for the Hamptons.

Stacey leaves the window and snatches the dress from Dawn's hands. "Not really," she replies, icily, and takes the dress to the closet.

"You can help me," Emily tells Dawn, hurrying over, putting herself between Dawn and Stacey. "All this needs to go into the bathroom." Emily pushes a navy blue nylon toiletries bag into Dawn's arms along with a curling iron and hairdryer.

I don't know if I should step in. While Dawn goes into the bathroom, I start unpacking Stacey's suitcase. If she slaps my hand away, I'll slap her back. But Stacey says nothing, just passes me a hanger and shakes out a pair of black dress pants. "I hope there's an ironing board around here," she says to no one in particular. I don't know where she expects to wear those pants.

Dawn comes back into the room. She stands awkwardly in the doorway, watching us move around the bedroom. "Stacey," she says and allows the name to hang in the air. Stacey turns around, holding a red dress in her hands. "Do you have some sort of problem with me?" Dawn asks her.

Stacey's blue eyes widen. She doesn't respond immediately. She fidgets with the red dress in her hands. "Um…oh…." Stacey replies. "No. No, of course not."

"Because I don't think I've ever done anything to you."

"Um, no. I mean, I know," Stacey says and her discomfort shouts out to the room. "Sorry. Sorry." She turns back around and shoves the dress onto a hanger.

Dawn lets her off with that. I hang Stacey's last dress in the closet and below me, Stacey's knelt down, straightening her shoes. There's a noticeable flush to her cheeks, but she keeps her face away from Dawn and Emily's sight. I wonder if Stacey regrets coming. I don't want Stacey or Dawn to spend the trip feeling like the interloper, the one only looking in.

"Stace," I say, pleasant as possible, "do you think we should head straight for the beach? Or should we check out the pool first?"

Stacey straightens and begins messing with her clothes hanging in the closet. "Actually, I was hoping we could go into the village," she answers. "I need a few things. There was no time this morning to repack my bag. This is all the stuff I was taking to New York. I forgot to grab a bathing suit."

Well, no wonder her clothes seem weird.

"Oooh, going into the village sounds fun," says Emily.

Dawn looks disappointed. She counted on us hitting the beach first thing. "I brought a bunch of bathing suits, Stacey. You can borrow one of mine," she offers, still wanting to be friends.

"Thanks, but I'd rather have my own."

I should probably offer Stacey one of my swimsuits, but I think sharing swimsuits is like sharing your bra and underwear. It's just vaguely unsanitary and unseemly.

"I'll tell my parents." I go to the end of the hallway and into the master suite. Dad's out on the balcony, leaning against the railing, looking out at the ocean. I find Mom at the bathroom sink, rifling through her cosmetics case, tossing lipsticks and eyeliner pencils onto the counter. "What are you looking for?" I ask.

Mom jumps. "You scared me," she answers. She throws everything back into the case. "And nothing. Why aren't you in your suit yet? I thought you'd all be lathered with sunscreen and racing down to the beach by now."

"Stacey doesn't have a swimsuit. She wants to go into town to buy one. Is that okay?"

"Certainly. Hal and I were talking about going to the market anyway and if we're in the village, we can grab lunch. You girls ought to be starving."

I really haven't thought about food or eating. I've been too excited for hunger to occur to me. But now that it's been called to my attention, I realize I am rather hungry. That granola bar seems very long ago.

Five minutes later, we're back in the minivan, belted in and headed for Westhampton Beach village. And so our first day in the Hamptons begins.


	37. Chapter 37

I muster all my goodwill and courage to overcome the indignity of arriving in Westhampton Beach village in a minivan. After circling Main Street twice, just to mess with me, Dad parallel parks between a Jaguar and a Ferrari. He tips his panama hat at the lady getting out of the Ferrari. It's neverending, the humiliation.

"Would you girls like to eat first?" Mom asks us when we're out of the dorkmobile. She unzips her canvas shoulder bag and pulls out a white bucket hat. She squishes it down over her red bob. I think my parents planned this.

"Sure, Mrs. Blume," answers Stacey.

"Yeah, that sounds good," Emily adds.

My friends glance over at me where I'm hiding behind my Chanel sunglasses while nonchalantly leaning against someone's silver Camaro.

"Yes, let's distance ourselves from that," Mom agrees, jerking her thumb toward the minivan. She starts down the street, expecting everyone to fall into step behind her. We do.

We end up at the same café where Dawn and Emily earlier spotted Anna Stevenson and Kristy Thomas. Anna and Kristy are long gone and I don't give them much thought once we're seated and scanning the menu. Mom and Dad once again give us the courtesy of pretending not to know us, taking a table at the opposite end of the café. My friends and I take a table near the front window, overlooking the patio and Main Street. Dawn and I sit together, facing Stacey and Emily. We take time deliberating over the menu, agreeing to eat light, so we can hit the beach and the water as soon as we return to the house.

When our waitress appears, I'm the first to order. "I'll have the garden salad with the poppy seed dressing," I tell her.

"The grilled cheese on wheat," Emily orders, handing over her menu.

"And I'll have the egg salad sandwich with a side of fruit," Stacey says.

Dawn's still studying the menu when the waitress looks at her expectantly. "Oh, um," Dawn delays. "Um, I'll have the egg salad, too, with the fruit. That sounds good." She offers the waitress her menu.

"On second thought," Stacey tells the waitress, "I'll have the grilled cheese."

"Sure thing," our waitress says with a smile, crossing out Stacey's original order. She smiles again before leaving our table.

Stacey has the decency to look embarrassed when I shoot her a withering glare. She glances away. That's the kind of pettiness I'd expect from Mary Anne these days, not from usually nice, considerate Stacey. I thought we settled this nonsense back at the house. I share a look with Emily. We didn't come to referee. I thought things would be different.

Stacey should make the effort for me.

Instead, she avoids Dawn's gaze, staring at a landscape painting on the wall, sipping her water through a straw.

It's not like Dawn has the plague.

What a fun vacation.

"It was nice of the Wallingfords to loan your parents the minivan," Emily finally breaks the ice. Apparently, that's the best she can do.

"Please, they got the better end of the deal. Mrs. Wallingford's cruising around Stoneybrook in our Lexus right now while we're stuck with the minivan that Disney World threw up."

"I think the Tinkerbell decals are kind of sweet," Stacey says. Stacey's mom drives a station wagon, so Stacey's not exactly objective.

I roll my eyes. "What about that horrid bumper sticker? 'My daughter's a cheerleader at Stoneybrook High School!'" I squeak in a high-pitched voice. "More like 'My daughter's a whore at Stoneybrook High School!' or 'My daughter had an abortion at the Stoneybrook Free Clinic!'"

"You're just a little ray of sunshine today," Dawn tells me.

"I feel sorry for Dorianne," Stacey says, ignoring Dawn.

"I don't," I reply. No one made Dorianne spread her legs for Cary Retlin.

"I don't know what you guys are talking about," Dawn says.

Emily waves her hand. "Just old gossip," she says, dismissively. "Nothing anyone cares about anymore."

"I miss a lot," Dawn comments and I look over at Stacey, thinking she might say something nasty, but Stacey doesn't have anything at all.

Lunch passes. My parents finish before us and wait for us on a bench outside the café, Dad in his panama hat and Mom in her bucket hat. They look like some other girl's parents. Not mine. Mom and Dad walk us to the other end of Main Street, the four of us trailing after them. At the corner, we reach the market, where Mom and Dad want to pick up a few things for the house. Stacey scans the street for boutiques with bathing suits. Luckily, there's one straight across from the market, not too far away to give my mother a heart attack.

And still she says, "Don't go anywhere else. Come straight back to the market when you're through." No one would guess my mother for a worrier.

"Of course, Mrs. Blume. I won't take long," Stacey assures Mom, starting across the street. "Come on, Emily."

Stacey and Emily hurry across the street, arm in arm. I wonder if this will be the whole vacation – Stacey and Emily, Dawn and I.

I've never seen my mother inside a supermarket before, which I mistakenly inform her of. Inside the market, Mom pretends to be fascinated by the shopping cart, pushing it back and forth and loudly marveling, "It's like a basket on wheels!"

"Your mom's crazy," Dawn remarks when we've ditched my parents in the produce section.

"She likes to think she's a comedienne," I reply, dropping some red apples into a bag. We're only buying a few things, just to get us through the long weekend – some breakfast foods, soda and juice, fruit. "Listen though. I'm real sorry about Stacey. I don't know what's gotten into her. She isn't usually like this."

Dawn shrugs. "What did I expect? She's Mary Anne's best friend."

"Still, you've not done anything terrible…right?"

Dawn shrugs again. "Only according to Mary Anne," she answers. "But I don't care what Stacey thinks. Let's just have fun." Dawn gives me a sunny grin.

We're standing in line when Stacey and Emily find us. Stacey has a small black paper bag hanging from her arm. Emily, meanwhile, has jumped on the dumb hat bandwagon and has a lemon-colored wide-brimmed hat perched atop her head. My parents smile politely at her, as if they have room to judge.

"That hat's not going to fit in the minivan," I inform Emily.

"I guess you'll have to walk home then," Emily replies.

"To make room for your ugly hat?" I almost screech.

"I am your guest," Emily reminds me.

Somehow, we manage to fit in the minivan, although Dad has trouble seeing out the rear view mirror because of Emily's hat. When we reach the beach house, the four of us race up the front steps, not bothering to help Dad with the groceries, eager to finally make our appearance on the sandy Westhampton Beach. Once upstairs, we're a flurry of excitement, the earlier strain in the past and forgotten. Dawn and I run back and forth through our Jack-and-Jill bathroom, checking to see who has sunscreen and magazines and extra sunglasses. Across the hall, Emily and Stacey make a commotion, erupting in sporadic peals of laughter.

After much deliberation, I decide on my plum-colored swimsuit for my official Hamptons debut. I brush out my French braid and pin my hair up, fastening it firmly in place with a tortoise shell clip and wrap a floral print sarong around my waist. I switch out my white hoops for my garnet heart earrings, put on my garnet ring, and grab a pair of flip-flops before heading to Dawn's room. Dawn waits on her bed with her stuffed beach bag, wearing a never-before-seen electric blue bikini covered in white stars.

"We're going to the beach, you know, not a fashion show," Dawn points out.

"I look fabulous. Don't be jealous."

In the hall, I call for Stacey and Emily and after several tries, they finally come. Stacey's new swimsuit is a candy apple red bikini. Emily, of course, wears her standard black one-piece, the only swimsuit I've ever seen her in. Unfortunately, she's paired it with her new hat.

"You aren't seriously wearing that, are you?" I ask her.

Emily touches the wide-brim of the hat. "Of course," she answers, testily. "I don't want to get skin cancer!"

I look from Stacey to Dawn for help, but both only shrug. "Whatever," I mumble and lead the way downstairs.

In the kitchen, my parents are putting away the groceries. At least Dad is. Mom's leaning back against the sink, spinning an apple slicer around on her finger.

"That's an apple slicer," I tell her. "You use it to slice apples."

"You don't say? What will they think of next?" Mom replies. I like that she's in a friendlier mood. "Finally headed for the beach, girls? Don't stray farther than from where we can see you from the balcony."

"Yeah, yeah, Mom," I respond while my friends obediently say, "Yes, Mrs. Blume."

We take Fiona Fee's private staircase down to the beach. I slide on my Chanel sunglasses and throw my shoulders back when we reach the bottom of the staircase. I make my entrance, an entrance on a private staircase. And then Emily stumbles and knocks me face first into the sand.

"Sorry, sorry," Emily apologizes, scrambling to get off of me.

So much for great entrances.

I brush myself off, glancing around furtively. No one on the beach notices and I gather my things and lead the way from the stairs. It's well into the afternoon and the beach is bustling with activity. There are a lot of college-age kids running up and down the shoreline, and groups of teenage girls gathered around the lifeguard towers, and a few clusters of children playing in the sand with their young, pretty nannies. I choose a spot that's well clear of all these people, checking behind me to see if we're in view of the house. We are. I shake out my beach towel and the others follow suit.

"What should we do first?" Dawn asks as we settle onto our towels.

Stacey looks up from her legs, where she's generously spreading sun tan lotion. "What do you mean?" she asks. "Isn't this what we're going to do?"

I take out my bottle of SPF 45 sunscreen and begin slathering it on my arms. I already feel the sun's rays violating my porcelain skin. "We're basking in the sun," I tell Dawn.

"Doesn't anyone want to get in the ocean?" Dawn asks.

Stacey wrinkles her nose. "No thanks," she says and pours sun tan lotion on her bare stomach.

"Maybe later," I add.

Dawn looks to Emily, who's also coating herself in sunscreen. Emily pretends to not notice Dawn's gaze for as long as possible, then finally says, "I'm not supposed to go in the water."

"What?" says Dawn.

"The undertow might get me. Or a shark."

"Your mother's beyond ridiculous," I inform Emily.

"Beaches scare her."

"I don't think there are any sharks around here," Dawn assures Emily.

Emily doesn't give in and Dawn finally gives up, flopping back onto her towel. I take out the new issue of _People_ and catch up on the latest Skyllo gossip. He and the Insect's lead guitarist have been wreaking havoc down under in Australia, trashing at least four hotel rooms in the last week. Beside me, Stacey slips on her headphones and disappears behind my copy of _Teen._ I try to ignore the fact that Emily appears to be reading a Shakespearean play. On the beach. On vacation. I sigh, inwardly, and flip to the movie reviews.

After half an hour, Dawn's had enough. She pushes herself up, kicking sand onto my towel (which I kick back with gusto), and takes off toward the water. Emily and I watch her dive into the surf, disappearing beneath the salty water. Even Stacey, stretched out on her stomach, looks over her shoulder to watch Dawn.

"Okay, it's really hot," Emily announces.

"Maybe Fiona Fee has an umbrella in her garage," I suggest.

"Maybe," Emily agrees, hesitantly. Then just as hesitantly, puts down her book and stands. She drops her hat onto her towel. "Please don't hide my hat," she says before scampering off, down to the water's edge.

"Emily Elaine!" I call after her. "Listen to your mother!"

Emily ignores me, not even offering a nasty back glance. I watch her dip a tentative toe into the water then leap back with a yelp. Dawn spots her and wades through the water toward Emily, whooping and splashing at her. It almost looks fun. But cold.

"Stacey," I start when it doesn't look like Emily's coming back anytime soon.

Silence.

"Stace," I say again, jostling her arm.

Stacey rolls onto her side, removing her headphones. "What?" she asks.

"Let's talk."

"About what?" Stacey replies, propping herself onto her elbow.

"Look, I know you're in a difficult spot," I begin and the smile vanishes from Stacey's lips. Suddenly, she realizes why I've roused her. "Mary Anne's my friend, too," I plunge on. "I know you think I'm being unfair to her and I know Mary Anne thinks I'm trying to hurt her. I'm not and this has nothing to do with her. Mary Anne's my friend, but so is Dawn."

"I thought your grandmother was making you hang out with her."

Those words keep returning to haunt me. I recover quickly. "That was then, this is now. It took some effort and looking past her fashion flaws, but Dawn's my friend. She isn't an awful, horrible monster. She's…she's a lot like us. Just a normal girl." I pause and wait for Stacey to comment. She doesn't, so I add, "Now, I don't know exactly why Dawn and Mary Anne are fighting…" I draw it out and by the look on Stacey's face, I realize she doesn't know either.

"Mary Anne hasn't exactly told me either," she admits. "I mean, aside from annoying things Dawn's done around the house and rude comments she's made. They just don't get along anymore. You don't really know Dawn, Grace. I know Mary Anne. She doesn't keep secrets from me."

I watch Stacey's face. "She didn't mention an argument a few days ago?" I ask.

"No. She just said that Dawn lies."

Stacey doesn't lie. And her face doesn't lie now. She doesn't know about Dawn and Mr. Marshall. She doesn't know about Dawn's accusation and retraction. Mary Anne didn't tell her. Mary Anne's keeping secrets.

I feel sorry for Stacey. I feel sorry for her unshakable confidence in Mary Anne.

And deep down, I envy it.

"Dawn's still my friend, Stace. Can you try not to be such a bitch to her?"

"I wasn't trying to be a bitch!" Stacey protests. "I just…I'm in a tough spot, Grace. I'm sorry. I'll try harder. I don't want to spoil anyone's vacation."

"Thanks, Stacey," I say and settle back down onto my towel, signaling the end of our heart-to-heart. She might try to hug me or something.

"But Grace…"

I push up onto my elbows to regard Stacey again.

"You really don't know Dawn."

I don't have time to think of a sharp response.

"Heads up!"

A volleyball smacks down in the middle of our towels, knocking over my thermos of ice water and toppling our pillar of magazines. After the volleyball, a body dives in, a body with a messy tangle of dark, curly hair. Stacey and I shriek as we're sprayed with a shower of sand. The volleyball within her grip, the curly head turns to us and Abby Stevenson spits out a mouthful of sand.

"I know how to make an entrance."

"Abby Stevenson, get off my legs!" I shriek and kick her in the boob. (Or where her boob would be if she had any).

"God," Stacey curses, frantically brushing the sand off her towel.

"No, sorry, just Abby," quips Abby.

I roll my eyes and resist the urge to hurl her volleyball into the ocean.

Abby jumps to her feet and brushes the sand off her teal tankini. She manages to keep her mouth shut long enough to help Stacey and I shake out our towels. By then, Abby's twin, Anna, and Kristy Thomas are jogging toward us, both is tankinis that match Abby's, except in indigo and navy, respectively. Seeing them, Dawn jogs in from the water with Emily trudging behind her, waving an arm in the air, calling, "Hi, Anna!"

"Hey guys," Kristy greets us, stopping beside Stacey. "What are you doing here?"

"We _were_ enjoying a gorgeous day at the beach before Gabrielle Reece interrupted," I reply.

"Now, now," says Abby. "Gabrielle Reece only wishes she were as good as me."

"Ignore my sister, please," Anna says.

Kristy does just that, probably out of habit. "I can't believe you guys are here. What a weird coincidence. Did you just get here today?" she asks and without waiting for confirmation, looks over at Dawn, registering her presence for the first time. "Hey, Dawn," she says. "It's been a long time." Kristy steps forward and wraps her arms around Dawn, pulling her into a hug. Dawn hugs her back, smiling over Kristy's shoulder.

When they pull apart, Dawn tells Kristy, "We just got in a few hours ago. Grace's parents brought us. We're staying right up there, in Fiona Fee's beach house. Grace's parents shill her underwear."

I roll my eyes.

"It's so cool that you guys are here," Abby informs us. "We've been here since Wednesday and quite frankly – " Abby drops her voice and points to Kristy and Anna, "these two are getting a little boring."

"Shut up, Abby," Kristy responds. "Hey, if you're all done laying around and baking, want to join our volleyball game? We've been playing two-on-Abby. It'll be more fun with actual teams."

Abby's arm shoots into the air. "I call Grace and her giraffe legs!" she shouts.

"Volleyball's not my game," I say. As a general rule, I dislike team sports. Tennis and swimming are different. When I'm out there, it's all me. Abby and Kristy play volleyball at Stoneybrook Day, where they go to school. Volleyball's an odd game for Kristy, who's smaller even than Emily. But I've seen her play. She's little but mighty.

"I have an idea," Dawn pipes up. "Let's go back to the house and use the swimming pool! We're already in our swimsuits. How about that?" Dawn looks over at me. "Your parents won't mind, will they?" she asks.

"Yeah!" cheers Abby.

I hesitate and glance over at Kristy. Stacey thinks I'm looking at her and makes a face. But Kristy sees me and hesitates, too.

"I don't know, Ab," she says, "we told your grandparents we'd be down here."

"That's okay. I can run back and tell them."

"We shouldn't intrude on the Blumes," Kristy says, emphasizing the name.

"They won't mind. They're cool," Dawn insists. She's eager. I have to wonder if it's because Kristy's one of the few who's been happy to see her.

"We'll stay outside. They won't even know we're there," Abby adds, not getting it. She doesn't notice the silent look that passes between Kristy and I. Kristy and I are thinking of the same thing, the same thing we've probably been thinking since first laying eyes on each other. It's what runs through our minds, always, when we are together. We see each other every so often, every now and then, around town throughout the year and in September, at Mary Anne's birthday parties. We don't talk. We pass each other silently. And in that silence, we speak all the things we cannot say.

Three years ago, on a warm August night, we did a very, very bad thing. Kristy, Abby, and I. And Cokie. Cokie, my then best friend. And afterward, we parted. Kristy and Abby's parents sent them to Stoneybrook Day to save them. And my parents said no more Cokie. No more Cokie, and stay away from Kristy and Abby, too.

It was a very, very bad thing.

We think of it, Kristy and I, on the sunny Westhampton Beach today. We think it and no one hears, not even Abby. And our unspoken protests fall on deaf ears as Anna Stevenson helps Dawn and Emily gather our things while Abby sprints off to find her grandparents.

I am reluctantly pulled along.

Kristy and Anna leave us, to haul their own belongings back to their own beach house. Our towels and swimsuits covered in sand, Dawn, Stacey, Emily, and I head up Fiona Fee's private staircase. It's a harder climb going up and Emily whines most of the way. Mom meets us on the back porch and when she learns we intend to swim, makes us hose off our feet and legs. We mustn't leave sand in Fiona Fee's swimming pool. We climb up to the balcony and drop our stuff there, then go back downstairs and into the kitchen. We track in some sand, but Mom doesn't notice. The four of us sit around the kitchen table, drinking sodas (except Dawn, who opts for water) and snacking of fresh pineapple and papaya. I hope that the others change their minds.

That hope is dashed a few minutes later when we hear Abby on the porch, calling our names.

"Who is that shrieking out there?" Mom demands coming into the kitchen.

"It's just Abby Stevenson," I reply, as we stand from the table. "We ran into her on the beach."

"Who?" Mom asks.

"_Abby Stevenson_, Mom." I raise my eyebrows at her in a meaningful way. "She's outside with her sister and Kristy Thomas."

"They're coming over to swim," explains Dawn. "We hope that's okay."

Recognition has set in for Mom. Her hands go to her throat and she stares out the window at Abby's curly head bobbing past and then back at me. "I don't…I can't be held responsible…_Grace,_" Mom says my name sharply and walks out of the kitchen. She means for me to follow her.

Dawn, Stacey, and Emily exchange worried looks.

"Are you in trouble?" Emily asks.

"I'm sorry," Dawn apologizes. "I didn't think…."

"No, you didn't," Stacey says. "You should have asked Grace first."

"Knock it off," I snap. "I'm not in trouble." I walk briskly out of the room, following after my mother.

Mom's in the foyer, waiting. She doesn't question me. She simply waits.

"We ran into them on the beach," I start my explanation. "Stacey, Dawn, Kristy, and Abby used to be good friends. Dawn and Stacey don't know how you feel about…" I jerk my head back toward the kitchen. I drop Stacey's name in there, so all is not on Dawn. Dawn doesn't know how Mom feels about her either. "I didn't invite them. It just sort of happened."

"Grace, you know your father and I want you to stay away from those girls," Mom tells me. She lowers her voice. "You know what happened last time. They'll get you in trouble again."

Sometimes, it's like my mother doesn't think I have a mind of my own.

"I thought you said it was Cokie's fault," I say to Mom.

"I don't like it, Grace."

"I've not done anything since then."

"Two weeks ago, you drove into a tree."

"That was an accident."

"It was an accident three years ago, too."

This is the most my mother and I have talked about it since it happened. Usually, it's all for me and my memory.

"They aren't my friends, Mom."

Mom regards me with a blank face. Finally, she says, "Just go swim. We'll talk about it later."

But we never will.

Dawn, Stacey, and Emily are on the back porch with Kristy, Abby, and Anna. I join them and my friends shoot me inquisitive looks, which I brush aside, charging past toward the staircase. The swimming pool overlooks the beach below and everyone gasps in awe, even though my friends have already seen it. Stacey slides onto a chaise lounge and motions for me to join her, but I pretend I don't see and instead, jump feet first into the pool, so I don't have to answer her questions.

When I resurface, Kristy and Abby cannonball on either side of me, sending a huge wave out of the pool and drenching Stacey. Stacey shrieks and waves her soaked copy of _#1 Fan_ in the air.

"Is everything okay with your mom?" Emily asks me, swimming over from the steps.

"She was just worried about our dinner plans," I lie and swim away.

I manage to dodge any other questions.

It takes thirty minutes of coaxing, but Stacey finally gets in the swimming pool. In spite of herself, she starts to have fun, forgetting Mary Anne and her loyalties. Or maybe those thoughts are always there, drifting at the back of her mind. I know those kinds of thoughts. But for all appearances, Stacey changes, changes back into the Stacey I know. The warm, familiar Stacey. She is a Stacey to like.

After an hour, Emily and I leave the pool, retiring to chaise lounges. Emily plops her silly hat back on her head and when our skin dries, we reapply our sunscreen. I can already see that Emily's nose and shoulders are red. I worry silently over my own skin.

Kristy, Abby, and Anna leave when my father comes out to check on us. He doesn't run them off, but his presence reminds them of the time and other obligations. We say our goodbyes and Dawn walks them back around to the front porch. It wasn't so bad, considering.

We lay on chaise lounges until Stacey and Dawn are as dry as Emily and I. Then, after far too much sun, we return to the house. Inside, Dad mentions dinner and we head upstairs. I'm feeling charitable, so I allow Dawn to shower first. I'm also feeling sleepy from the sun, so I lay on the bed, eyes closed, listening to the crashing waves through the open window, mixing with the sounds of Dawn in the shower. I don't sleep. There's something keeping me awake.

I'm brushing out my hair when Dawn slips into my bedroom, dressed in an oversized t-shirt with a towel wrapped around her head. "Just wanted to let you know that I'm out," she tells me.

"All right, thanks."

Dawn hesitates. "And…and I wanted to tell you that Stacey was right. I should have asked first before inviting Kristy and the others over. Sometimes I don't think."

"It's not a big deal."

Dawn gasps. "Where has your bite gone, Grace Blume?"

I growl at her.

Dawn chuckles and returns to her room.

I set my hairbrush down on the vanity. I stop. I look down at my hands. My heart skips. The garnet ring is missing.


	38. Chapter 38

I tear through my bedroom in a mad panic

I tear through my bedroom in a mad panic. I pull the pink and white-striped comforter from the bed and shake it out. Then I do the same with the sheets and the pillows. I shake them and shaken them and nothing falls to the floor. I drop to my knees. I crawl around the bed, hands sweeping over the cream carpeting, searching blindly beneath the bed, wildly all around, in every nook and dark corner. I search and search and come up empty handed.

"No, no, no!" I wail, thrusting my arms far beneath the bed, reaching out and grasping nothing. "Dawn!" I shout.

Dawn races through the bathroom into my bedroom. Her hair is damp and stringy, falling down her back against the oversized t-shirt. "What's wrong?" she cries, halting in the doorway.

"My ring! I've lost my garnet ring!"

"Oh, no!" Dawn exclaims and runs to the vanity, where I've left my hairbrush and barrettes. She starts moving things aside. "Where did you have it last?"

"I put it on before we went down to the beach," I answer, still on the floor, still on all fours. I don't remember anything more. I put on the ring and forgot it.

"You wore it to the beach?" Dawn replies. "Grace, why would you do that?"

"I don't know! I wasn't thinking!"

And I wasn't. Obviously. I just slid the ring on. I didn't think about it. It didn't occur to me _not _to wear it. I've been wearing it every day. I wear it all the time. It's like slipping on my shoes, it's like buttoning my shirt. Of course, I shouldn't have worn it. Of course, I am so foolish.

Dawn and I flip over the mattress. We push the furniture away from the walls. We destroy the room. And we get nothing for it.

"It isn't here!" I wail. "My mother's going to kill me!"

"We'll find it. We'll find it," Dawn assures me. "It's probably…Grace, it's probably in the pool."

I look up from where I'm crouched beneath the vanity. The pool! It's probably been sucked into the filtration system. I'll never get it back. I almost cry, but I won't cry in front of Dawn. How could I be so stupid? How could I carelessly lose what my mother's given to me? I'm so dumb.

I try not to let the panic show when I charge into Emily and Stacey's room. Both have towels wrapped around their heads, both are in nothing but t-shirts and underwear. They're surprised when I barge in, still in my swimsuit, Dawn trailing behind me.

"I lost my ring!" My voice rises shrilly, unexpectedly.

"What ring?" asks Stacey.

"My mother's garnet ring!"

Emily gasps, but Stacey still looks perplexed.

"My mother gave me a garnet ring," I explain to her. "She got it from my grandmother. I lost it. I was wearing it when we went down to the beach and now it's gone!"

"Grace! You wore it to the beach!" Emily cries.

"Oh, Grace," Stacey moans.

It's like I don't already know I'm a fool.

"I think it slipped off in the pool," Dawn speaks up behind me.

Stacey nods. "That's it, Grace," she says, pulling on a pair of shorts. "We'll find it."

We run downstairs and luckily don't encounter my parents. Stacey stays behind in the kitchen, searching the floor around the table. Dawn takes off to the beach, while Emily and I climb the stairs to the swimming pool. We stand silently at the edge of the deep end, peering down into the clear, undisturbed water. I stare at the drain, where the ring would likely tumble, but it isn't there. We walk around the pool perimeter, slowly, staring down into the water. We don't see it. We don't see my ring.

We crawl around the deck, Emily and I, on our hands and knees. We're so intent on our purpose that we don't hear my mother's footsteps, not until she says, "What on earth are you girls doing?"

Emily and I raise our faces toward my mother. She towers over us, tall and imposing, shielding her eyes to stare at us.

My throat closes. I choke on the truth. It refuses to surface. Instead, I stare back at Mom as she stares down at me and Emily, on our hands and knees around the chaises.

"Emily…Emily lost a pearl earring," I lie.

Emily shoots me a look.

"Emily," Mom says, "both your earrings are in your ears."

Instinctively, Emily touches her earlobes. "Oh…" she says, drawing it out. "These…these are my back up pearls."

"We think she lost it in the pool," I tell Mom.

"All right," Mom says. "I'll have Hal come out and check the filter and the skimmer. If we don't find it, will it be easy to replace? Is it a real pearl?"

"It has sentimental value," I answer.

"I'll have Hal come right out then," Mom says and turns and walks back toward the house.

"I can't believe you made me lie to your mom!" Emily hisses. "Why didn't you tell her the truth?"

Because she didn't want me to have the ring in the first place.

I turn away from Emily without answering. Dad comes out and pulls the skimmer from the water by its long white hose. Mom follows him outside and starts looking around the chaise lounges. I hover behind Dad but he doesn't find anything. A knot forms in my throat and pulls down into my chest. I look across the swimming pool at Mom, where she stands near the railing, searching for an earring that's not really lost. I'm sorry I ever asked for the ring.

I wonder what's taken Stacey so long in the kitchen until she and Dawn appear on the deck with sandy feet. They've been down on the beach together. They didn't find anything. How could they? Mom pats Emily's back and apologizes, but that we must make our dinner reservations. We can look again in the morning.

Deep down, in the pit of my stomach, I know it's useless. I lost the ring and it is gone.

I'm quiet during the drive into the village. Mom and Dad take us to an upscale steakhouse called Banjo Joe's. It came highly recommended by Fiona Fee herself. The wait for a table spills out onto the sidewalk. The patio is packed with loud and drunken vacationers. We've barely made our seven-thirty reservation. The hostess leads us to a table at the center of the restaurant. Mom sits next to me and usually, I'd be secretly thrilled, but tonight, I don't want her near. I don't want to smell her perfume or hear her laugh or feel her arm when it brushes against mine. I don't want any reminder of her and what I've done.

My parents order red wine and I wish they wouldn't. My friends don't pay attention, studying their menus closely. I stare down at mine, but the sick feeling in my stomach tells me I won't be eating much tonight. The waiter brings our drink order, then flips open his pad and waits for us to begin. Mom and Dad order the filet mignon medium-well. I echo their order because nothing sounds very good anyway. Dawn orders the seasonal vegetable platter with melted cheese. Stacey and Emily debate with each other for a while before Stacey settles on the grilled chicken and Emily on the barbecue chicken.

Everyone else carries on the conversation so I don't have to. I pick at my dinner salad when it arrives and don't eat much more of my filet mignon. Everyone else cleans their plates. My friends look at me sympathetically when Mom asks if I feel all right.

I feel so bad that I don't even remember to count Mom's glasses of wine.

"I think you need some fresh night air," Mom tells me when we leave the restaurant. It's a beautiful and warm Hamptons evening. "Why don't you girls take a walk?" she suggests.

"Sure," I agree just to agree with her.

"Stay on Main Street. We'll wait on the patio."

"Thanks, Mrs. Blume," says Stacey, slipping an arm through mine and steering me down the street. We can barely fit onto the street with Dawn and Emily at our sides. All the boutiques are closed and not many people are out on the street. The fresh air feels good. We walk until we reach the village library, pitch dark on the inside, and sit on the steps. The street lamps bathe us in their light.

"Is your mom going to be mad?" Dawn asks me.

I shrug. I don't know. Mom didn't want me to have the ring, not at first. But she changed her mind. But is it truly mine? She never said. I think it is still her ring. She's not fully given it to me. But will she ever ask for it back? Does she actually want it? It's been buried for years, somewhere, not in her jewelry chest. I'd never seen it until it became mine. Maybe it means nothing to her.

"Is it really a big deal?" asks Stacey. "I mean, not to be rude or anything, but can't she buy you a new ring? Your parents can afford it, right?"

"Gee, Stacey," replies Dawn.

I watch Stacey blush in the lamplight.

"I don't think that's the point, Stace," Emily says, diplomatically.

"It's okay," I tell them because normally, I'd just expect my mom to replace a lost piece of jewelry. "My grandmother gave my mother the ring a long time ago. Mom can't just replace it."

"Don't they not get along? Maybe your mom won't care," suggests Emily. "Maybe she's not that sentimental about it."

"Maybe."

"I can't see your mom getting that mad," Stacey says, meaning to be helpful. She doesn't even know my mother.

"It was only an accident," Dawn points out.

"Everyone makes mistakes," Emily agrees.

I pretend that they've convinced me. I'm not convinced of anything. But I don't want to ruin the night, the vacation. I cheer up, on the outside, and fake a new mood. My friends are pleased. We walk back down to the restaurant, where my parents wait on the patio, downing cocktails. I hope Dad's careful.

Back at the house, Dawn and Stacey decide to take a nighttime swim. Stacey and I change into our swimsuits from earlier, but Dawn appears on the deck in a black and blue plaid bikini. Emily stays in her clothes and lounges on a chaise. I join her while Stacey and Dawn jump into the swimming pool. The pool light and deck lights are all ablaze. The pool water glows all around Stacey and Dawn. Beyond the beach house, other lights dot the cliffs. Behind me, the ocean crashes in waves. I close my eyes and listen.

Listening to the crashing waves and to Stacey and Dawn moving through the water, I calm in my mind. I know what I must do. I must tell my mother. Once, my mother promised she'd never lie to me. I promised the same. I haven't kept that promise. I've misled her and kept things from her. I will tell her the truth about this. This is my fault and I am to blame.

I dive into the deep end. I do not hide there.

We don't shower after our swim, but pin our hair up to dry and change into our pajamas. It's late. I'm tired from all the sun and swimming and from the weight of knowing what I must do. Stacey looks tired, too, sagging slightly in her crisp new pajamas, little white shorts with pink flowers and a pink-striped tank top, which she probably bought with a weekend of hot nights in the city with her father and stepmother in mind. Stacey stifles a yawn, but Dawn and Emily are bright-eyed and alert, the long day yet to take its toll on them. We're sitting in the violet room, Dawn's room, playing the Dream Phone someone left in a cabinet downstairs. Dawn and Emily found it stacked beneath boxes of other board games. It was the only one with all the pieces still intact. I've figured out my secret admirer isn't at the mall and isn't wearing a jacket when I excuse myself to go downstairs.

"Yeah, okay, but we aren't waiting for you," Dawn tells me. She's wearing an oversize t-shirt from the Winchester Mystery House and taking the game much too seriously. "I'm winning."

"Oh, you are not," gripes Stacey, punching a number into the phone.

I leave the room. I can't worry about them now. I'm halfway down the hallway when I hear Emily shriek, "It's Jamal!" So much for Dawn winning.

I find Mom in the kitchen. She's standing at the counter holding a glass of water. She pops a pill into her mouth and washes it down with the water.

"Isn't it a little late to be taking your pills?" I ask her.

"It's just a sleeping pill. You know I don't sleep well in strange places," Mom replies, returning the water pitcher to the refrigerator. She goes to the sink and dumps out her glass, then puts it in the dishwasher. "Aren't I supposed to be the mother?" she asks.

"Yes, I know. I just – nevermind." Mom doesn't like when I nag and worry over her. "Where's Dad?"

"Already in bed. He can sleep anywhere," Mom answers. She wets a paper towel and begins wiping down the counter. Mom never cleans up after herself at home. She leaves that to me and Marta. But we are in Fiona Fee's house now.

"That's right. Can I have one of your sleeping pills?"

"You're too young for sleeping pills. That's not a habit you want to start," Mom replies, throwing away the paper towel. She turns to me. "Those pajamas are so cute on you, Grace," she says and I glance down at the new pajamas she brought me from work. They're purple capri pants in a tight heart pattern with a fitted purple tee. They'll be in the next Fiona Fee catalogue, but no one else has them now. Mom likes when I wear the things she brings me. "I'm going to get ready for bed, too," Mom says. She's still in her jeans and polo shirt. "I hope you girls don't plan to stay up till all hours."

"Of course not," I respond and almost lose my nerve. We're being so normal, just like I always want, and I'm about to ruin it. "Mom? Can I tell you something?"

"Certainly," Mom answers, looking interestedly at me. I have her complete attention. Maybe I could wait until we're back in Stoneybrook. "Is everything all right, Grace? You weren't acting like yourself at dinner."

"That's because…I have to confess something, Mom. I'm really sorry…" I pause. Mom watches me with more than interest. Concern crosses her eyes and I am so sorry. "This afternoon, I wore your garnet ring, the one Gran gave you. I wore it to the beach and into the swimming pool. And I lost it. We've looked all over for it. That's what Emily and I were looking for on the deck. She didn't lose an earring. Stacey and Dawn looked down on the beach and we looked all over my room. We can't find it. I'm sorry, Mom, I really am."

"What do you mean you lost it?" Mom asks. All the color has drained from her face.

"I mean…I lost it. It's gone," I say, unsurely. "I'm so sorry, Mom."

Mom puts her hand to her throat, staring at me. The color slowly returns to her face. It darkens, the skin turning red. "You lost it," she whispers. Her voice grows. "You _lost_ it?"

"Yes."

Mom stares hard, her green eyes flashing angrily. "You _lost _it?" she repeats, loudly. "Grace, how could you be so stupid? Who wears a garnet ring to the beach?" Mom demands.

"I'm sorry!" I cry, flustered. I wasn't expecting this kind of anger. "I'm sorry! It was an accident! I made a mistake!"

"You're always having accidents," Mom snaps. "You're not a stupid girl, Grace, so why do you do such stupid things? You don't _think. _Ever!"

"That's not fair!" I protest.

"You wore it to the _beach_?" Mom roars. Mom pounds her fist against her chest. "_I _never wore it to the beach!" Mom shouts. She thrusts her arm into the air, pointing a finger skyward. "Your friends upstairs wouldn't wear it to the beach! Or in the pool! When I wore that ring, I didn't do careless things with it. I took care of it. I treated it like something special and I expected you to do the same. I should have known. I should have known that you'd be dumb about it."

"I'm not dumb!"

"I know you're not, which makes it even worse. Christ, Grace, why don't you ever use your brain?"

My rage quickly grows to match my mother's. I've apologized. I did the adult thing. I admitted my error. But I'm not so sorry anymore. "I never saw you wear that ring!" I snap back at her.

"Oh, you don't know anything!"

"I know that you don't even like Gran! You hate her! You've never said one nice thing about her, not my entire life. And she's never said anything nice about you either. You can't stand for me to talk about her. You probably wish she were dead. So, why do you even care about that ring? You have lots of other rings and jewelry that cost much more. Just buy another garnet ring. What do you care?"

My mother's face is now so red it rivals the shade of her hair. I bet I am her mirror. Mom stares at me, those green eyes furious.

"Because it's the only thing my mother ever gave me that she didn't have to!" Mom shouts at me. She storms past, out the door, out of the kitchen. Her feet thunder up the stairs. A door slams in the distance.

I stand rooted to my spot in the kitchen. I wait for her to come back, knowing she won't. And suddenly, I am sorry all over again.


	39. Chapter 39

I don't sleep well.

Mom should have given me a sleeping pill. I toss and turn, mind racing, keeping me awake. I'm hot. I kick off the covers. It doesn't help. I roll onto my stomach, then over again onto my back. Side to side. It is no use. Finally, I get out of bed and go into the bathroom. I press my ear against the door to Dawn's room, hoping she's awake. I hear nothing and leave her to sleep.

There's a light on downstairs. I head down the stairs, pausing at the bottom, hearing a familiar sound, a sound I've known all my life. The spinning of the wheels on a stationary bike. The sound drifts from the direction of the exercise room. I sink to the bottom stair, arms resting on my knees, and listen. I listen to the spinning wheels, as they spin to get my mother nowhere. They drone on and on and I listen.

Of course, I shouldn't have worn the ring to the beach. Of course, my mother would be angry. She's right. I don't think. I don't use my brain.

I think of my mother's words. _Because it's the only thing my mother ever gave me that she didn't have to._ I should have seen. I should have seen beyond myself. I think of the garnet ring with its checker-cut stone and silver setting and inscription inside the band. _For Fay. _That's what Gran wrote to my mother. I thought once, to myself, that that's all Gran had for my mother. I should have thought on it more, dwelled on it until I saw.

I think of the garnet ring. It wasn't just a garnet ring to me. It was something special of my mother's that she gave to me. She gave it to me to tell me something that she could not say. It never occurred to me that the ring was special to my mother, too, something given to her by her mother. It looked like just a garnet ring, deep red and glimmering, but there was more behind it, so much else beyond it. I think of all that went into its purchase all those years ago. Gran got the idea, somehow, to buy my mother a birthstone ring for her sixteenth birthday. She thought of it and went to my grandfather to ask for the money. Then she went out to buy the ring. She picked it out, chose the one she wanted for my mother, and asked for it to be inscribed. Her chosen inscription was distant, like her, but chosen all the same. There's more in that ring than I imagined. I should have thought. I should have known.

And I lost it.

I go back upstairs. In my room, with the door shut, I can't hear Mom anymore. But in my head, the spinning wheels continue, on and on, while I try to sleep.

I must fall asleep at some point. I awake in the morning to sun streaming in through the window. The window's cracked open and through it, I smell the warm, salty air. I check my watch on the bedside table. It's a little before nine. I roll out of bed, wobble tiredly onto my legs, and go into the bathroom. The door to Dawn's room is open. She isn't around. I wash my face and brush my teeth, then back in my room quickly do my morning sit-ups and push-ups.

The kitchen's full of music and laughter when I amble in. Dawn and Stacey are together with the radio blaring on the counter. It blasts a fast-paced Skeeball song. Dawn stands at the counter, slicing a honeydew melon with a long knife, wearing a hot pink and white tank dress over her bikini. Stacey's at the stove, pouring a bowl of raw egg into a skillet, hips shaking to the music. She has her new red bikini on underneath a red sundress. Both sing along with Skyllo.

It's the strangest scene I've witnessed in a long time.

It becomes stranger still when I realize Mom's in the kitchen, too, peeling an orange over the sink, digging her manicured nails into the rind. She shoves the orange through the top of the stainless steel juicer sitting beside the sink. She searches for the "on" button.

"Mrs. Blume, you have to put the cover back on," Dawn informs her, snapping the cover into place before flicking the juicer on. It whirs to life, louder than the Skeeball song playing on the radio.

"Good morning," I greet them, very loudly over the sound of the juicer.

Stacey stops dancing to turn around. Mom and Dawn look back at me too. I can't read Mom's expression.

"Good morning!" Stacey greets me, a bit too cheerfully. My friends know Mom and I argued last night. Luckily, the house is so large, I don't think they heard a word.

"Hey!" Dawn says, also with too much cheer.

Mom begins peeling another orange. "Hello, Grace," she says to the sink moreso than to me.

"We're making breakfast," Stacey tells me, needlessly. "Dawn and I thought it would be nice since your parents brought us. Emily's still asleep."

"I'm making the juice," Mom says, still to the sink.

Dawn crosses her eyes at me. I doubt Mom's been much help.

"What should I do?" I ask, going to stand beside Stacey at the stove, placing the most distance between Mom and myself.

"You can find the salt and pepper," Stacey replies. "Then when you've done that, put some bread in the toaster."

I was really hoping to not do anything at all. But I humor Stacey, following her instructions. I find the salt and pepper inside a cabinet beside the stove. Through the window above the sink, I spy Dad on the porch, stretched out on a patio chair, panama hat over his face.

Emily finally appears when all the work is done. She's dressed in tan shorts and a t-shirt. She hasn't put on make up or even curled her hair. It falls limply around her shoulders, pushed back with a white headband.

"No one woke me!" she cries.

"I set the alarm clock," Stacey tells her, taking a stack of plates from Dawn. "Didn't you hear it?"

"I don't hear alarm clocks. My mother always wakes me up."

"Well, your mother isn't here," I respond. _Thank God. _

"May I have some of that juice?" Emily asks, already moving past her irritation.

"Certainly," Mom replies, handing the pitcher of fresh squeezed orange juice to Emily.

We eat out on the porch, my friends and I crammed at a small table. Mom and Dad sit together on Dad's patio chair. Mom doesn't look at me. I look out at the ocean, hair blowing around my face. I clean my plate of Stacey's scrambled eggs and Dawn's fruit salad and every crumb of toast. I am famished and didn't realize.

"I'd really like to go shopping today," Stacey tells us, nibbling the edge of her toast. "Dawn and I thought we'd go to the beach this morning. You know, before it gets too hot and crowded. Then we could shop this afternoon."

I raise my eyebrows. Since when does the phrase "Dawn and I" include Stacey?

I try not to sound grumpy when I say, "Sure. I don't care."

"We can have lunch in town again," Emily chimes in. "I'd rather go to the beach early anyway. I don't want to get any more sunburned than I already am."

"Only your nose is burned," Dawn points out. "Besides, a little color is good for you."

"I'm not worried about a little color. I'm worried about a little skin cancer."

"You worry too much. You aren't going to get skin cancer. Is everyone finished?" Stacey asks, pushing back from the table and picking up her plate. She only ate half her breakfast.

Anxious as Stacey may be to get to the beach, we have to wait. Mom makes us clean the kitchen before we're allowed to leave the house. She watches us momentarily as we scrape our plates off into the garbage can, then goes back outside to Dad. Stacey switches the radio on again to the middle of an incomprehensible Insects song. Stacey wipes down the counter tops while Dawn tosses away trash. Emily and I half-heartedly load the dishwasher. We don't pre-wash anything. After the Insects, the latest Corrie Lalique song comes on. Emily actually squeals and then joins Dawn and Stacey in singing along.

"S-s-say my name," they sing. Stacey and Dawn are swaying their hips again. Emily swings her shoulders while handing me a dirty glass. "I will not be t-tamed."

I don't tell Emily that she sounds like her father.

Since Dawn and Stacey are already in their swimsuits, they take the task of gathering beach towels and packing the cooler while Emily and I go upstairs. As I leave the kitchen, I cast a backward glance at Dawn and Stacey, who are busy pouring ice into the cooler. Stacey holds the cooler steady while Dawn tips the bag, spilling out the ice. Neither notices my look and I hurry on.

I slip into my new jade green strapless swimsuit, turning in front of the vanity mirror in admiration of myself. I wrap a gold sarong around my waist and slide on a pair of gold thong sandals. I'm brushing out my hair, which tumbles down my back in a wavy mess when someone raps on the bedroom door.

"Come in," I call out, expecting Emily to bustle in, requesting that I coat her body in an armor of sunscreen. Instead, my mother walks in.

She's wearing jeans again. Jeans with a heather-gray three-quarter sleeve shirt and her white tennis shoes. She throws me, momentarily, every time she dresses like this. "I hoped we could talk before you leave with your friends," Mom tells me, striding into my room.

I hesitate, setting my hairbrush on the vanity.

"I know your friends are waiting, but I thought we could take a walk. Perhaps, they could go ahead without you."

She doesn't look like she's going to yell.

"All right," I agree.

Just then, Emily pokes her head through the doorway, which is a bit awkward since she's wearing that ridiculous hat again.

"Oh," she says when she sees my mother. "Sorry to interrupt. I'm ready. Are you coming?"

"You guys can head down without me. I'll be along in awhile."

Emily pauses in interest. "Okay then. See you down there." She leaves the doorway and a few seconds later, her footfalls sound on the stairs.

My friends are still in the kitchen when Mom and I leave through the front door. Mom and I walk down the driveway in silence and continue in that silence down the shady street, winding away from the sound of the ocean.

"I like your swimsuit," Mom says, conversationally. "You have beautiful taste, Grace."

I don't respond.

Mom's quiet for a minute or two. We reach the public access stairs for the beach. Mom suggests we go down and I don't comment, but let her lead me. When our feet land in the warm sand, we steer away from the direction of Fiona Fee's house, moving toward the opposite end of the beach.

"It's different than Fiji," Mom comments and sneaks a glance at me, which I catch from the corner of my eye. I lower my gaze. "I wanted to tell you, Grace, how sorry I am for last night. I shouldn't have lost my temper. I was wrong."

She's sorry. Dad's sorry. Gran's sorry. Everyone's always sorry. They should just not do these things in the first place.

"I know I hurt you," Mom continues. "I was very angry, but I thought it over last night. And Hal and I talked about it this morning. I'm not mad anymore, Grace, only sorry."

"I'm sorry, too," I reply. "I'm sorry for being careless. I realize now that the ring was important to you."

"It was," Mom agrees. "It's not that important anymore. That's something I realize now. It once meant very much to me, but I think, it stopped meaning much a long time ago."

"You didn't want me to have it," I say. It seems too far to admit that I acted like a brat. "And you were right."

"No, I was wrong. You should have had it. I didn't need it and it wasn't doing me any good hidden away. I should have given it to you for your sixteenth birthday," Mom answers and she's quiet for a while more. We walk along the shore, on the damp and hard-packed sand. "Your grandmother gave me the ring for my sixteenth birthday. I've never understood why. I can't figure how her mind works. Your grandparents also gave me a car. A 1960 Impala convertible. Baby blue with whitewall tires. I loved that car, but I would have been pleased with just the ring."

"I've seen pictures of that car."

"Have you? It was the best car at Stoneybrook High, but quite impractical for the middle of January during an especially harsh Connecticut winter. My father chose it. I never understood him either," Mom says and folds her arms across her chest. Her face tightens in a frown. She's silent again with her private thoughts. I wonder the things she remembers. "You know that your grandmother and I were never close. She was always indifferent toward Margolo and I. The sun rose and set on Corinne, but Margolo and I were like pieces of furniture. She even liked Elsa better than either of us."

"Who's Elsa?"

"The old housekeeper. She left after your grandfather's death. She was your grandmother's only friend, which made sense since your grandmother never left the house. But that's neither here nor there," Mom tells me. "I am sorry about the ring, but I know it was an accident. The ring meant a lot to me when I was young, but I don't need it now. I can live without it. I wish I'd realized that sooner, Grace, so I wouldn't have lost my temper with you."

"I understand. It's okay."

Mom waits a beat. "Maybe," she replies. "But I'm still sorry. I said things I should not have, things I did not mean. You aren't stupid, Grace, and you aren't dumb."

"Sometimes I am."

"No, you're not. You are smarter than you give yourself credit for. I wish you realized that, Grace."

I don't need this to turn into a lecture about school and grades and SAT scores. "Maybe we'll still find the ring," I say, dodging the school subject.

"Perhaps," Mom says, but she doesn't sound convinced. She is resigned to the loss of the ring. Maybe she honestly does not care, and maybe she's willed herself to that belief. And maybe the garnet ring represented a hope, long ago, that things would one day be different, and maybe that hope has passed.

I should say more. More than _I'm sorry. _I wish I could speak to my mother of all the things I wish to say. There is so much. There's more to me than what she sees.

And I suppose there's more to her.

Mom's stopped. Her arms are still folded across her chest and she sniffs the sea air as the breeze rustles through her bobbed hair. I catch something in her face and it fades. "I wanted so much for you, Grace," Mom tells me. It's odd and nothing accompanies it. "Should we go back?" Mom asks. "You don't want to waste the whole morning wandering the beach with me."

"I like being with you," I reply, honestly.

Mom hides her surprise quickly. How could she not know? "I like to be with you, too." But not enough.

We head back toward Fiona Fee's beach house. There are things I want to ask still. I want to ask where Mom thinks Aunt Margolo's ring disappeared to and why she thinks Sharon Spier would have it. I want to ask why she thinks Gran gave her the garnet ring in the first place. But I don't think Mom has the answers to those questions. I don't know if she even has guesses.

But there are things I know now. "You and Gran will never get along," I say to Mom. It's what I've wanted since I was a child. Suddenly, it is plain that that hope has been in vain.

"No. We will not," Mom answers.

I am sorry for my mother. I wish I could hold her hand. I could reach out and take it, entwine my fingers through hers. She may be pleased.

I keep my hands at my sides.

We come to Fiona Fee's winding street, full circle. A part of me wishes that we were still walking, that no one was waiting for me.

"I probably have no right to judge who is good and bad," Mom says out of the clear blue. Neither of us has spoken since leaving the beach. "But your grandmother isn't a good person."

Then we arrive in Fiona Fee's driveway and Mom goes ahead of me, taking the steps two at a time. I climb after her. My friends haven't gone to the beach yet. They wait for me on the back porch, their voices ringing with laughter. I follow the sound around the house. Mom's a few steps ahead of me. When I round the corner, the first thing I see are the backs of the Stevenson twins, Abby in her teal tankini, a weird metal contraption slung strangely over her shoulder, and Anna in belted shorts and her indigo tankini top. Kristy Thomas is nowhere in sight.

"Hello, girls," Mom greets my friends and the Stevensons. She shields her eyes with her hand. "Why aren't you all down on the beach?"

"We decided to wait for Grace," Emily answers.

Mom offers them a dazzling smile, then pats me gently on the back. "I apologize for keeping her so long. Now get going and have fun." Mom disappears inside the house. I think she's completely forgotten who the Stevensons are.

"What are you doing here?" I ask Abby. Bluntly, not rudely. There's a difference.

"We brought you this," Abby replies, swinging the metal contraption off her shoulder. "It's my grandpa's metal detector," she explains. "We heard you lost a ring."

I stare at Abby. Is it in the Hamptons newsletter or something?

"Abby came over while we were making breakfast," Dawn answers my unspoken question.

"We dug it out of the garage. We think it still works," says Abby.

"Thanks," I grumble, taking the metal detector from her. Even so, I don't think Dawn and Stacey needed to spill my business to Abby Stevenson. And I hope she doesn't plan to hang around us the entire trip.

Anna nudges Abby with an elbow. "Well, we better go check on Kristy's headache," she tells her sister.

"Yeah, okay." Abby waves, walking around the porch. "See you on the beach!"

I'm sort of shaken by Abby, like I am whenever I bump into Cokie or Kristy, but in a different way.

"Everything okay?" asks Dawn.

"Huh? Sure. Abby's a major dork, that's all."

"No, I mean, with your mom."

"Oh. Yes. Fine. She's not mad anymore. It's fine."

I haul the metal detector down to the beach anyway. Luckily, Dawn finds it fascinating and not at all lame, and happily scours the area with it. She finds fifty-seven cents and a bottle cap, but not the garnet ring.

Stacey and I stretch out on our beach towels, watching Dawn chase Emily down the shoreline with the metal detector. They're both laughing hysterically, the brim of Emily's lemon-colored hat bobbing up and down. Stacey and I trade our magazines from yesterday and read in silence, occasionally sipping from our thermoses of ice water. We've just turned onto our stomachs when I spot the Stevenson twins jogging toward us, in their twin tankinis, Abby slightly ahead of Anna. They will just not give up.

"Hey!" Abby greets us, brightly. There's a volleyball tucked under her arm. "Mind if we set up camp with you?"

"We don't own the sand," I reply, coolly, returning my eyes to my magazine.

"Good thing because our lease just ran out!" Abby says, weirdly, and chuckles at her own non-joke. She drops the volleyball in the sand next to the cooler and spreads her beach towel beside Stacey's. Anna hesitates momentarily before shaking out her own. I almost feel bad because I don't particularly have anything against Anna. She's all right. Freshman and sophomore year, before she left for her fancy music school in Bridgeport or Hartford or wherever, she often ate lunch with us and sometimes showed up at our parties. She was never really my friend. What would we talk about?

"Where's Kristy?" Stacey asks not looking too pleased by the appearance of Abby either.

"Bad headache. Gram Elsie figures she got too much sun yesterday," answers Abby. I wonder if she realizes the real reason. She doesn't let on. "Hey, Dawn!" Abby bellows, hands cupping her mouth, forgetting Kristy. She takes off toward the surf, calling to Dawn, who shouts back, trudging through the water. Anna doesn't honor Stacey or I with a backward glance, following after her sister and waving at Emily.

"You don't like that Abby Stevenson any longer, do you?" I observe.

Stacey sits up on her elbows, magazine cast aside. "She's a bit annoying," Stacey says. "I guess she's always been. But I don't _dislike_ her. I just don't have anything to say to her. You know how it is. I don't see her very often. I don't really know her anymore. It's kind of like with Dawn. We didn't stop being friends for any particular reason. It's just, you know…" Stacey shrugs and picks her magazine up again.

I eye the red sundress folded in Stacey's tote bag. I know it's Dawn's. I want to say something, but stop myself. "Well, I don't like her," I say, haughtily. "Abby, I mean. What a drip." I turn the page of my magazine so quickly it rips.

"She isn't _that_ bad," Stacey admonishes. She pushes the lid off the cooler. "Want a soda?"

I never get a chance to answer. Too late, Stacey and I see Dawn and Abby racing toward us, a plastic pail in Abby's hands. I open my mouth just as she tosses the water on us. Behind them, in the ocean, a little boy waves his arms, screaming.

"I will kill you!" I shriek, scrambling to my feet.

Stacey simply releases a deafening war cry.

Dawn and Abby dash away, shrieking with laughter. Abby throws the pail back to the little boy as she and Dawn jump into the surf. Stacey and I chase after them, our shouts making them laugh harder. We wade into the ocean to where the water creeps up our calves. It's shockingly cold. I shove Dawn over because I expect such childishness from Abby. Emily and Anna watch from a fair distance, waist deep in the water, splashing each other.

"You're such jerks!" I tell Dawn and Abby.

"Them's fighting words!" Dawn giggles, splashing me. "We finally got you in the water!"

Surprisingly, Stacey splashes her back, wading in farther, joining in the giggling.

Dawn and Stacey turn on me, splashing me with a ferocity. "Don't be a party pooper!" Dawn cries, sending a heavy spray in my direction. Abby darts forward and whips off the sarong from around my waist. She takes off down the beach with it, running through the shallow water, the sarong billowing over her head. Abby Stevenson is a menace to my vacation.

Dawn tackles me before I seize the opportunity to shout obscenities at Abby.

When Dawn and Stacey tire of attempting to drown me, they take up body surfing. Dawn shows Stacey how they do it out in California. Emily and Anna remain farther from us, jumping waves, but mostly standing in the cold water chatting. I sit down in the shallows near the shoreline. It's cool and the water rushes back and forth over my long legs. Abby eventually reappears with my sarong tied over her head, barely covering the vast tangle of dark curls. I ignore her.

I lean back on my elbows and watch the others attempt a game of Marco Polo in the crashing waves. All except Abby, who's retrieved the metal detector from its discarded place in the sand, and insists on repeatedly running past me with it, shouting, "beep beep!"

After what feels like a million years, an old man appears along the water's edge, calling to Abby and Anna as he walks toward us. He's shirtless with a tanned potbelly and chest covered in thick gray hair. This would be Abby's grandfather. The Stevenson twins run to our spot on the sand to gather their things and then leave with their grandfather. Abby leaves behind the metal detector.

It's not long after Dawn's shouted an enthusiastic farewell to Abby that my father comes down to the beach. He's dressed in another pair of chinos and a white polo, the ever-present panama hat perched on his bald head. "Fay asked that I check on you," Dad informs us. "She's in the sauna. And I brought you this." Dad raises the shopping bag in his hand. It's filled with fresh fruit and a bag of cookies.

"Thanks, Dad," I say as my friends come out of the water. Dad helps me to my feet and I attempt to brush the wet sand from my rear. Only then do I realize that Abby Stevenson stole my damn sarong.

Dad doesn't linger on the beach. He leaves us on our towels, devouring the food. Stacey and I have to share Dawn and Emily's towels because ours are still damp and sand-covered.

"I think I'm baking," Emily says when she's polished off her third cookie. "Am I red? I feel burned." She glances down at her ample chest.

"You're fine," Stacey assures her.

Emily's placed worries in my own mind. I'm even paler than her. I don't want pre-mature wrinkles. "Let's go back up. We've been in the sun a long time."

Dawn falls back onto the sand. "I want to stay out here forever," she sighs.

"Suit yourself," I say as Emily and I begin to pack up. I feel irritated with her. It creeps up within me and threatens to rear its ugly head. I try to suppress it, but it lingers.

Dawn pulls her tank dress over her head and searches for her shoes. Stacey's already wearing her sundress and dabs at the red material with a napkin. "I got peach gunk on your dress," she tells Dawn.

"That's okay. It's not going to stain," Dawn says, hoisting her beach tote onto her shoulder and heading for the stairs, the metal detector in hand.

I'm the last up the stairs, the one stuck dragging the cooler. Mom's still in the sauna. My friends and I trek upstairs to shower and change. I let Dawn use our shower while I go down the hall to use the one in Mom and Dad's room. Afterward, I blow dry my hair in their bathroom, too, and then return to my own room. Dawn's blow drying her hair in our bathroom, dressed in her black Winchester shirt. I join her at the sink, wiping the still fogged mirror with my hand.

"I'm glad you worked things out with your mom," Dawn says when she's switched off the hairdryer. She runs a brush through her golden locks. "What about the ring?" she asks.

I shrug.

"It's too bad," she says, ignoring or oblivious to my mood. "I'm having a great time though. Thanks for inviting me along."

"Sure," I reply, pulling my red mane into a tight ponytail. I switch on the curling iron. "You are having a great time."

Dawn's reflection cocks an eyebrow at me. "Aren't you? I mean, losing the ring aside."

"Sure, but you're having more fun."

"That's only because you don't allow yourself to have fun," Dawn replies. She loads her toothbrush with toothpaste and scrubs her teeth vigorously.

"Stacey seems to have warmed to you," I comment, testing the curling iron with my finger.

Dawn shrugs, the toothbrush still in her mouth.

I don't mention that she and Abby seem to be getting along famously, too. Instead, I set aside the curling iron and begin applying my make up. Once Dawn spits into the sink and rinses her mouth, she doesn't say anything. We finish getting ready in silence, not oblivious to the gales of laughter drifting in from across the hall.


	40. Chapter 40

Stacey wanders into my bedroom while I'm dressing. I've just tugged my canary yellow dress over my head and am winding a gold chain of red beads around my neck. Stacey comes into my room wearing her black dress pants and a strapless top with three thick horizontal bands of black, white, and kelly-green. She French braided her hair and it hangs like a golden blonde rope down her back. I touch my own hair. Stacey's looks much more chic than my ponytail.

"Hello," I greet her, a bit stiffly, still somewhat miffed over her and Dawn's earlier behavior.

"Hey," Stacey returns. "Great dress. I haven't seen that before."

"Thanks," I reply, turning away to slip on my gold thong sandals.

"Can I borrow a pair of black sandals?" Stacey asks. "I didn't bring anything to wear with these pants. I keep some of my shoes at Dad's and….well." Stacey shrugs. "Emily's feet are tiny."

I almost suggest she borrow from her friend Dawn, but catch myself in time to bite my tongue. I fight back my emotions and say, coolly, "Yeah, sure. There's a pair in the closet."

Stacey retrieves my black heeled sandals from the closet and I watch as she buckles the straps around her slim ankles. "Perfect fit," she says.

"You're going to be hot in those pants," I inform Stacey.

Stacey shakes her head. "I'll be fine. What's important is I look good." Stacey chuckles, but I don't join in. Stacey glances over at me. "Everything okay, Grace?" she asks.

"Yeah, sure. Cute top."

"Oh, thanks! Mary Anne and I found it at Zingy's last week. Are you almost ready?"

Before I can answer, Dawn pops her head in from the bathroom. "I thought I heard voices! Almost ready?" she asks.

"I just asked Grace the same thing!" Stacey replies. "I'm all set. I just need to grab my purse."

"I didn't know we were going out all fancy," Dawn says to Stacey. Apparently, they no longer care if I'm ready to leave or not. "Is there a dress code or something?" jokes Dawn. She's in brown camouflage shorts and a fitted brown tee covered in shimmery gold swirls.

"What's going on in here?" demands Emily, barreling through the doorway. "What are you talking about?"

Dawn breathes a mock sigh of relief. "Good! I'm not alone! Grace and Stacey decided to get decked out for the shopping trip."

"No one told me!" Emily huffs. She's in pastel plaid bermuda shorts and a yellow t-shirt. "Are we supposed to change? Will they not let us in the boutiques if we look like little street urchins?"

"Oh, please, don't be ridiculous," I snap. "There's nothing wrong with your clothes. I mean, _I_ wouldn't wear them, but still. Get your purses and we'll go."

Emily makes a face, but whirls around and storms out of the room. Stacey follows after her. I check my hair in the mirror, almost missing the expression on Dawn's face. I attempt to overlook it, tugging at the back of my ponytail.

"Is everything all right?" asks Dawn.

"Certainly," I respond, straightening my dress. I pause and consider. I plunge in. "Why are you and Stacey so friendly all of a sudden?"

"Why? Are you jealous?"

"Certainly not!"

I snatch my purse off the dresser and leave Dawn behind in my room. I don't know why I'm angry. It's what I wanted, after all. For Dawn and Stacey to get along, for Stacey to act civil. Civil, but not necessarily _friendly._ I shouldn't have lost my temper and I know that Dawn is right.

But that doesn't make me feel any better.

We meet at the foot of the stairs and Dad drives us to the village. As we move further down Fiona Fee's street, further from the ocean, the houses grow older and smaller. On the left, we pass Abby Stevenson and her grandfather soaping up a fiery red Mustang parked in a long driveway. She doesn't notice us pass. I had not wondered where Abby's family lived in the Hamptons and did not expect them to be just up the street. It's funny, sometimes, the smallness of the world.

Dad drops us off in the heart of Westhampton Beach village. We agree to meet him outside the library in three hours. Dad honks and waves as he pulls back onto the street, tipping his hat, and thoroughly embarrassing me.

I roll my eyes, so my friends know I'm so above that.

"I'd love to check out that little boutique Emily and I visited yesterday," Stacey tells us. "We didn't really have a chance to look around, but the window displays were pretty hot."

I don't much care to visit any place that sold Emily that dreadful hat. Thankfully, she's without it at the moment. I tossed it into the sauna while she was in the shower. Good riddance. But I decide to be agreeable. "Okay. Why not?" I say to Stacey.

We stroll down the block to Leandra's Seaside Paradise. One of the mannequins in the front window wears Stacey's new bikini. None of the mannequins, however, wear Emily's hat.

Stacey and I browse the racks, overloading our arms with shorts and dresses and tops. Dawn stays at the swimsuit racks at the front of the store, holding bikini after bikini in front of her, appraising herself in the full-length mirror. Emily wanders to the shoes at the back of the store and while Stacey and I exclaim over asymmetrical hemlines, Emily tries on different wedge sandals, teetering awkwardly in a zig-zag line.

Stacey and I leave Leandra's with two shopping bags apiece. Emily buys nothing but a butterfly barrette and Dawn buys nothing at all. Stacey and I lead the way into the boutique next door. This one isn't beachwear, but more daring and cutting edge. More like the boutiques Stacey and I shop at in New York. We take up all four dressing rooms, laughing and peeking at each other through the curtains. The salesman looks annoyed, but eyeing Stacey's and my shopping bags, doesn't object. I feel lighter as I twirl in front of the mirror in a sapphire-colored halter dress. There's a long slit up the side that my parents may not approve of.

"Where are you going to wear _that_?" Emily demands when I've pulled aside my curtain. Emily's in a shapeless sack of a dress that wholly swallows her small frame.

I shrug and turn to face myself in the mirror. I'm thinking I could wear it for Homecoming in October. I want to be Homecoming Queen. Just like my mother. But I keep that to myself, my private desire.

"Oooh!" Stacey gasps, coming out from behind her curtain. She's changed back into her own clothes. "That's gorgeous, Grace. You must buy it. You'll find someplace to wear it eventually. It would be such a waste to leave it here."

"An ugly person might buy it," says Emily.

Dawn stands behind me, trying to catch the price tag from underneath my armpit. I bat her hand away. It's none of her business.

I buy the dress, plus two sleeveless blouses and a black miniskirt. Stacey buys the same skirt and we promise to never wear it on the same day.

We pop in and out of the other stores on the street before ending up at one that carries only cosmetics and perfumes. We take turns sitting on a tall stool, letting the salesgirl make us over. She gives me heavy black-ringed eyes and makes Emily's normally thin lips appear full and pouty. Dawn and Stacey's eyelids shimmer beneath the bright lights. The salesgirl has given them the same colors.

And even though I think it's sort of tacky, I don't protest when Emily hands over her camera and asks the salesgirl to take our photo. The salesgirl must sense a big commission because she obliges with a smile. We stand together – me and Emily and Dawn and Stacey – leaning back against the counter, shopping bags gathered at our feet. Dawn slips an arm around my waist and Emily leans her shoulder into mine. I don't think to do anything but smile.

The salesgirl gets her big commission from everyone except Dawn, who almost buys a container of blush, but balks at the thirty-two dollar price tag.

Dawn pretends to faint against a lamppost when Stacey and I begin debating our next stop. I roll my eyes at Dawn, but agree that it's time to stop for lunch. The four of us walk along the main drag, checking out the various cafes and restaurants. Finally, we duck into a little hole-in-the-wall pizza parlor. We order an all-veggie pizza with whole wheat crust at Dawn's request. We're the only customers at this time in the fading afternoon and have our pick of the tables and booths. I slide into a booth by the front window, looking out onto the main street. It reminds me of our booth at Argo's. Emily slides in next to me. Stacey and Dawn sit across from us. Neither seems irked at the other's close proximity.

Stacey, Emily, and I dig through our bags of new cosmetics while waiting for the pizza to arrive. Emily shows us the tube of bright red lipstick she bought for her mother. Like Mrs. Bernstein needs any more red lipstick.

"I think it's criminal to charge so much for cosmetics," Dawn informs us.

"There is no price for beauty," I reply.

"Sure there is. It's the twenty bucks you spent on a single tube of eyeliner. And how much did you pay for that moisturizer?" retorts Dawn grabbing across the table.

"Mind your own business," I tell her, dropping my newly purchased treasures back into the bag.

"Are you going to make a crusade of this, Dawn?" Stacey inquires in a bored voice. It's different than the one she's used for Dawn today. I sit up and take notice of it.

Dawn, who usually doesn't ruffle, pinks slightly in the cheeks and collapses backward in her seat. "No, no," she says, stirring her iced tea. "Just a comment. Sorry."

I start to offer Dawn my free mascara sample. It must be no fun to not have a credit card. But Stacey is faster. "I sneaked a bunch of the free samples when that salesgirl wasn't looking. I got them for Mary Anne, but here, this is that overpriced moisturizer Grace bought." Stacey pushes two small packets toward Dawn.

"Hey, thanks," Dawn says and drops them into her lone shopping bag.

I don't get it.

Once the pizza arrives, we dive in with gusto, polishing it off in record time. We down the remainder of our drinks, then take turns in the single occupancy bathroom before heading back out into the village. Stacey and I are ready for more shopping action, but Dawn appears less than thrilled while Emily trails behind us, wallet out, adding up her charge receipts. We pop into a shoe boutique where, strangely, Stacey and I buy nothing while Dawn and Emily both purchase new sandals.

"I'm actually supposed to be looking for a dress for my cousin's wedding," Emily tells us as we leave the boutique. "Do you think I could wear those shoes to the wedding?"

"It depends. What color is your dress supposed to be?" I ask.

"Peach."

"Doubtful. Peach and cranberry rarely go together."

Emily declines the next boutique, sighting that if she charges anymore on the credit card her mother's head will explode. Dawn offers to stay with her and so, Stacey and I leave them on a bench outside an ice cream parlor. Stacey and I push our way into the shop, elbowing past the middle-aged women gathered near the register. They're all much too old for these clothes. Stacey and I stick close together, browsing the racks of dresses, our many shopping bags banging into each other.

A wide selection of dresses in hand, we make our way to the communal dressing room at the back. Luckily, it's clear of all those over-tanned, horse-faced women. Good. I don't need them staring at me.

Stacey slips out of her clothes and pulls on a white sundress with thin black straps. She turns, admiring herself in the mirror.

"Cute," I tell her, slipping a cobalt-blue dress over my head. I tug it down, straightening the skirt. It has off-the-shoulder bell sleeves and a drop-waist. Not for me. "This would look better on you," I say, pulling the dress back over my head. I toss it onto Stacey's pile.

Stacey picks up the dress. "Yeah," she says, "maybe with some knee-high boots."

I step into another dress, this time a navy blue tube dress. I turn around. I like the drawstring waist. I look over at Stacey to ask her opinion. I ask her something else instead. "What's going on with you and Dawn?"

Stacey's in the cobalt-blue dress, shaking her hips in front of the mirror. She stops to regard me, arms lifted over her head in mid-dance. "What?" she replies, puzzled.

"All of a sudden, you're friends again. Why?"

"We aren't friends."

"You could have fooled me."

"We aren't friends," Stacey repeats. "You told me to be nice to her. I'm being nice, aren't I? I don't want to ruin anyone's vacation. I told you that on the beach."

"I think you're going a little above and beyond," I tell her, stepping out of the navy dress. I put my yellow back on.

Stacey frowns at me. "I don't know what you want, Grace. You wanted us to get along and I'm doing my best. I thought about it and you're right, Dawn hasn't really done anything to me. I don't hate her. But Mary Anne's still my best friend and Dawn and I aren't friends."

"Have you told Dawn that?"

"Of course not," Stacey says, changing into her own clothes. "I don't have to. You're getting what you want, Grace, so why are you complaining?"

I don't know. I straighten my red beads, avoiding Stacey's gaze. I am getting what I want. But it doesn't make me happy. Something bothers me in the back of my mind. I think I feel bad for Dawn, bad that she may think she's friends again with Stacey, that everything's on its way to being okay. I don't want Dawn and Stacey to not be friends, and then, I don't want them to be friends either. I don't want Dawn to be hurt.

"Thanks, Stace. I appreciate the effort," I say. I try to sound sincere. I am sincere, but still bothered. "But I think giving her things may be a bit much."

Stacey looks sheepish as we leave the dressing room. I don't press further. I let it end there.

Outside the ice cream parlor, Dawn and Emily still wait for us, although they've been inside. When we meet them, Emily's frantically licking the dripping sides of a rainbow sherbet cone while Dawn sips a fruit smoothie. Stacey and I pop inside, leaving our bags with Dawn and Emily. I decide on a lime sherbet cone and Stacey – after much self-debate – orders a peach banana smoothie made with non-fat plain yogurt. She says she really shouldn't have it.

We're half an hour late meeting Dad. As promised, he's parked outside the library, patiently waiting while listening to the radio. We climb into the van, full of apologies for our tardiness, except Dawn, who just points out that Dad shouldn't sit in a parked vehicle with the engine running.

Back at Fiona Fee's house, I see the tell-tale sign of Mom's laptop extension cord in the dining room. Even though she swore, I pretend not to notice, instead hurrying passed the room with my armload of shopping bags. As we rush up the stairs, Dad moans melodramatically about how we'll have to ship our suitcases back to Stoneybrook or else the minivan may not move for the weight of too many shoes. I don't know why he has to be so embarrassing.

My friends and I have very little down time before making our next plans. We're making the most of our vacation. I take my Chanel sunglasses along with Stacey's and my stack of magazines out to the pool deck. Stacey and Emily are already there – Stacey in her red bikini while, like me, Emily's remained in her clothes. With deep irritation, I see that Emily's wearing her hat again.

"Your hat's back," I remark, settling onto a chaise. I slide on my sunglasses.

"I know you're the one who hid it," Emily replies, applying a stamp to the postcard she's writing. "I found it in the sauna."

I thought I hid it well. "What made you look in the sauna?" I ask, not bothering to mask my irritation.

"Your mother was finishing in the sauna when we returned from the beach. I knew it would be fresh in your mind. It's the first place I looked. I'm not an investigative reporter for nothing."

"Oh, what's there to investigate at Stoneybrook High School?" I respond, snappishly.

Emily and Stacey exchange a look that annoys me far greater than the hat. I take a copy of _#1 Fan_ off the top of the magazine stack and then since Emily and Stacey are already doing it, slide out one of my postcards from between the magazine pages, and uncap my pen. While Stacey, Emily, and Dawn bought a mess of postcards while in the village, I only bought two – one for Mari and one for Gran. I steal one of Emily's stamps, despite her repeated attempts to slap my hand away, and write down Mari's address. I glance over at the postcard Emily's writing. It's addressed to Julie and all Emily's written before neatly signing her name is: _Does a hot dog make you lose control?_ I roll my eyes. They're so weird.

Dawn strolls onto the deck in a white string bikini decorated with tiny heart and star rhinestones in a rainbow of colors. "Hey, Stacey, Mrs. Blume's on the phone with your mom," says Dawn.

Stacey drops her pen. "I told her I'd call tonight!" she exclaims, jumping up from the chaise. "I can't believe she's checking up on me!" Stacey stomps toward the house.

"Don't feel bad," I call after her. "Emily's mom's called three times already!"

"Twice!" snaps Emily.

Stacey disappears into the house.

Dawn clucks her tongue. "Same old Mrs. McGill," she says.

"Personally, I don't blame her, considering that last summer – "

I cut Emily off. "Don't bring that up to Stacey."

"I wouldn't!"

"What?" says Dawn, but answers her own question. "Oh, didn't Stacey get sick last summer?"

"Around this time," Emily says and drops her voice to a whisper, "She almost died."

"Yeah, I remember. It was after my summer visit. I was back in California."

I glance over at Dawn. I've begun to forget that she hasn't always been here. I look down again and doodle a few stars around Mari's name.

"You don't think she'll get sick again," says Dawn.

"She won't get sick again," I reply. "Don't be morbid." I don't like to think about Stacey dying.

"I'm not," Dawn protests.

We stop talking because Stacey reappears on the deck, mouth set in a thin line. It's obvious that we've been talking about her, but we all pretend otherwise.

"She's on my last nerve. I wish she'd leave me alone," Stacey huffs, reclaiming her chaise. "I'm tired of her constant nagging. She needs to get a life!"

Dawn, Emily, and I look over at Stacey, surprised by her outburst. Usually, Stacey keeps her temper. She isn't prone to fits and tantrums. I don't know what she has to complain about.

"Moms think nagging is their natural right," offers Emily, who ought to know.

"My mom's an expert at long-distance guilt trips," adds Dawn.

Emily and Dawn look at me expectantly, but I have nothing to add. I don't get what Stacey's mad for anyway.

Stacey's mood blows over quickly. We settle onto our chaises with Dawn, Emily, and I writing postcards while Stacey lathers on the self-tanner she bought in the village. She wants to return to Stoneybrook with the perfect, most enviable tan. I don't think it counts if it's half-fake.

I finish Mari's postcard. I don't have much to say. I'm not much of a writer. I address the second postcard to Gran. Beside me, Emily's disgruntedly composing a postcard to one of her sets of grandparents by order of Mrs. Bernstein. I can't see her words to copy though. I write _Hi Gran_ then tap my pen against my teeth, thinking. I tell her that I'm having a lot of fun. My mind goes blank so I tap my teeth some more.

My mind drifts from the postcard. I haven't given myself much time to think about my earlier talk with Mom. I've kept busy to avoid it. My mind wanders there now as I stare down at Gran's name, _Allison McCracken,_ cramped onto the short address line. Lately, I try to look at only the good parts of Gran. But still, now, my mind goes to Mom's words, _your grandmother isn't a good person. _Then what kind of person is she? Are people solely either good or bad? I want to be a good person, but fear I fall short.

I remember Gran in the attic, furious and unrestrained, someone new, someone else. Gran threw me down the stairs. I wonder what she did to my mother.

_We're having an amazing time in Westhampton Beach! I wish I lived by the ocean._

I sign my name. _Your Granddaughter, Grace. _I stare at the postcard, a tightening in my throat. Sometimes I wish I could forget everything, know nothing.

But that doesn't stop me.

"You know what we should do tonight?" Dawn says, adjusting the portable stereo at the foot of her chaise. We can only get one station to come in clearly and it insists on playing the new Corrie Lalique song every five minutes. Only Emily is okay with this.

"What's that?" replies Stacey.

"This morning, Abby…" Dawn begins and I make a point to roll my eyes in her clear line of vision, "told me there's going to be a bonfire on the beach tonight. She said she went to a couple when she was here in June and that they were a lot of fun. She, Anna, and Kristy are going tonight. So, what does everyone think?"

"Oooh, sounds fun. I've never been to a bonfire. Do we get to roast marshmallows?" asks Emily.

Dawn makes a face.

"Don't you go to bonfires all the time in California?" Stacey asks.

"Um, not really."

"I'd rather not hang out with that doofus Abby Stevenson," I tell Dawn. "I've seen enough of her this trip, thank you very much."

"Oh, but Anna's so nice!" cries Emily.

"Abby and Anna aren't the same person." I have no problem with Anna, but the thought of another moment in the presence of Abby makes me almost upchuck in revulsion.

Stacey sits up on the chaise, frowning. "Yeah, I agree with Grace. I mean – "

"Oh, please! There's going to be a ton of people there! Right, Dawn?" interrupts Emily. She sits up, too, whipping her head around so quickly she smacks Stacey in the head with the brim of her hat. "I want to go! So, we're going. It's settled. I'll tell Mrs. Blume." Emily jumps to her feet and flounces off.

I let her go. "Since when does two against two mean you and Emily win?" I ask Dawn, but I'm not actually annoyed. I've never been to a bonfire either.

Emily returns to the deck and says, "Grace, your mom wants to see you in the kitchen."

I figured.

I take the outside stairs and enter the kitchen from the patio. Mom's at the counter slicing mangoes and peaches and shoving the pieces into the juicer. She's going to break Fiona Fee's juicer.

"You have plans?" Mom prompts.

"We were invited to a bonfire down on the beach. I guess most of the neighborhood will be there. Can we go?"

"I don't think so," Mom chuckles.

"Why not?"

"I'm not letting you girls run around in the dark on the beach or anywhere else. Especially not on the beach. Pitch dark by the water with no lifeguards on duty? And a bunch of drunken strangers? All I need is for one of you to nearly drown or catch yourself on fire."

Catch ourselves on fire? We're not _stupid. _"Dawn says – "

"Dawn says, Dawn says. I don't care what Dawn says."

"What has she done to make you dislike her?"

"I don't dislike her, but I don't want her getting you into trouble either."

"It's just a bonfire."

"I know what happens at bonfires."

"Oh, you don't know anything," I snap and stomp out of the kitchen. I don't return to the pool. Instead, I do something I normally never do. I go in search of my father. I find him in the exercise room, standing on the treadmill, which isn't even plugged in, drinking gin and working on the newspaper jumble. "Dad," I say, striding over to the treadmill.

"Hello, Grace."

"Dad, there's going to be a bonfire on the beach tonight. Can my friends and I go?"

"Of course. I don't see why not."

"Thanks. Tell Mom, okay?"

I bypass the kitchen by leaving the house through the front door. I rejoin my friends on the deck and tell them everything's set. Let my mother throw a tantrum, but she can throw it for my father. After all she said this morning, she could at least let me go to a bonfire. Set myself on fire. Honestly.

Mom comes out to the deck fifteen minutes later to tell us that she and Dad are running next door. She doesn't mention the bonfire or look upset, so Dad probably hasn't gotten to her yet. I act nonchalant and continue reading my magazine. My friends and I remain on the deck until the sun begins to fade. It's cooling outside and the breeze picks up. Stacey rubs a little more self-tanner on her chest and shoulders while Dawn sticks stamps onto her last few postcards, then we gather our belongings and head inside.

Stacey goes straight to her room to select tonight's outfit. I've already worked mine out in my head. Emily goes into the den to call her parents, an announcement I roll my eyes at quite dramatically. While they're occupied, Dawn and I collect all the postcards and walk down to Fiona Fee's mailbox.

"I've been thinking," I start when we're only still on the front steps.

"Congratulations on this momentous occasion."

"Shut up. I've been thinking about Gran."

"Mm-hm."

"And that day in the attic." We haven't talked about it, not since it happened. It seems in the very distant past. "You took a letter from the attic. Do you still have it?"

"Yeah, back in Stoneybrook. I hid it, don't worry."

"You said you took it because it was the only letter not addressed to Margaret Macintosh. Who was it addressed to then?"

"To your grandmother."

I glance at Dawn in surprise. We've reached the mailbox at the end of the long, winding drive. I slide the postcards inside and pull up the little rusted red flag, so it stands at attention. Dawn and I stay there in the sandy grass around the mailbox.

"And I didn't read the letter either. I waited for you."

"Who is it from?" I ask. I wasn't ready before, but I am ready now.

"Some man. I didn't recognize his name and I don't remember it now. The letter had a Boston postmark though."

I kick my thong sandal into the grass, sending grains of sand flying. We don't have any family in Boston. Gran's family lives in Rhode Island and Grandfather's is scattered throughout Connecticut.

"We'll read it when we get back, if you want," offers Dawn and I know it's what she wants. It's driven her crazy, no doubt, to sleep in the same room with that mysterious letter, even after all we found in the other letters.

I shrug. "Maybe." I want to know and I don't.

Mom and Dad go out to dinner in the village, but my friends and I, still full with pizza, stay behind. We eat peanut butter on toast and more of that delicious Westhampton Beach fresh fruit. Dawn swims laps in the pool. Afterward, the four of us take a walk on the beach. It's a good day.

Stacey and Emily nap in the evening. I lay down, too, on my bed in the pink-striped bedroom, thinking but trying not to think too much. Dawn takes a long shower in our bathroom and I listen to her running the water and dropping the shampoo. Outside, I listen to the ocean.

There's a knock on my door and Mom comes in. Tonight, she's wearing reddish-brown pants and a belted tartan blouse. She looks more boardroom than beach. "We're back," she announces, pausing in the center of the room. "We bought a chocolate cake at the restaurant and a slice of sugar-free apple pie for Stacey."

"Thanks," I say. She doesn't know that Dawn won't eat the cake. She hasn't paid attention.

Mom regards me a moment. I know what's coming. "Hal said he gave you permission to go to the bonfire," Mom informs me. She is unreadable. "I didn't realize you wanted to go that badly. I'm tired of arguing with you, Grace. You may go. But don't go behind my back again."

"You should listen to me better." How many times must I tell her?

"I apologize, Grace. I will listen better next time. And perhaps next time you can keep your temper." Mom leaves, closing the door behind her.

I roll my eyes at the door and turn onto my stomach. I lay on the bed a few minutes more until the water shuts off in the bathroom. I swing my legs off the bed and cross to the closet. I lay out my clothes for the bonfire. I dress simply in new capri jeans and a black spaghetti-strap tank top. I sit at the vanity and brush out my ponytail. It won't be too warm to wear my hair down.

We go down to the beach a little after nine. Emily remains in the clothes she's worn all day, insisting she has no one to impress at a beach bonfire. Stacey wears black shorts paired with a white pleated cami. Dawn, not worried as usual over her appearance, wears torn jeans and her lacy magenta tank top. It's cooler on the beach than expected. I wish, momentarily, for sleeves.

Unfortunately, Mom insists on escorting us to the bonfire. It's incredibly embarrassing.

A small crowd has already formed around the bonfire and we spot the Stevenson twins and Kristy Thomas right away. A large fire blazes in the freshly dug pit and several long logs have been rolled near to enclose the fire in a square. A few lawn chairs are also arranged around the bonfire. Mom walks around, checking things out. Mom's easily twice the age of the oldest person present. I roll my eyes at my friends no less than six times. Finally, Mom leaves.

"At least she didn't tell us to have fun and be careful," chirps Dawn.

Emily giggles, but Stacey narrows her eyes. Instantly, Dawn's own giggles cease.

"What do we do now?" I ask, glancing around. I'd rather not sit on a log.

Dawn shrugs. "Mingle. Have a good time. _Relax._"

"Do you think those marshmallows are for everyone?" Emily asks, then pulls Stacey over to a group of kids around our age, who are skewering marshmallows with long sticks.

Abby finally sees us and calls out, waving. She's wearing jeans and a t-shirt with my gold sarong tied around her waist. I ignore her.

Dawn waves back. "Mind if I say 'hi' to Abby?" she asks and I shake my head. Dawn trots around the bonfire to Abby and Anna. Kristy's nearby roasting a hot dog in the rising fire, the golden flames flickering around her face, causing it to light up and glow. We lock eyes and look away.

I sit down on a log by myself. Soon, Stacey is beside me, handing me a stick with two marshmallows on the end. She holds a stick, too, with a single marshmallow. Together, we lean forward, the fire lighting our marshmallows.

"This is the best day I've had in a long time," Stacey confesses.

I glance over at her. Her face glows like Kristy's. "Really?" I reply in surprise.

"Really. Honestly. It's been so much fun and we've packed a lot in. This is the perfect end," says Stacey. She brings her marshmallow out of the fire. She blows out the small flame. "And we still have tomorrow. I know I've told you already, but I'm happy I came. Face it, if I'd gone to New York, I would have spent the weekend wandering Central Park alone and if I were lucky, Dad and Samantha would have taken me to the Palm Court for dinner. I got the better option."

Stacey offers me her marshmallow and I take it, biting into the warm melted marshmallow cream. I remember, sometimes, why Stacey and I are friends. I should remember more often.

On the other side of the bonfire, Emily and Anna are laughing and tossing something into the flames, something that makes a popping sound and causes them to jump backward. Not far away, Dawn stands in a big group with Abby and Kristy, who are eating messy looking hot dogs. Dawn wags a finger at them and laughs, her face lit with happiness. I never have as much fun as everyone else.

Stacey and I gossip a bit about the kids in our class. We're giggling and having a fine time when someone plops onto the log beside me. I turn, cautiously, expecting Dawn or Emily, but fearing it may be Abby. Instead, it is none of them. It's no one I know. It's a boy.

"Hey," he greets me, brushing his brown bangs from his eyes. He's eighteen or nineteen. Even sitting down, I can tell that he's too short.

"What?" I reply, testily.

"Hey," he says again. He leans around me to Stacey. "Hey."

"Hello," answers Stacey with a stiff smile. She nudges my foot with hers.

"I'm Bryce. You two staying up in Westhampton for the summer?"

"Only until Tuesday," I say.

"Oh, too bad. I'm staying all summer with my grandparents. Where are you from?"

"Do you want something?" I ask.

Before the surprise fully washes over Bryce's face, Dawn bounds over to us, dropping onto the log beside Bryce. "Hi!" she greets him, cheerfully. "I'm Dawn Schafer!"

"I'm Bryce. You all know each other?"

"Sure, we came down from Connecticut together. I'm only visiting for the summer though. I'm from California. Where are you from?"

"Upstate, but I'm staying in Westhampton Beach all summer. Say, do your friends have names?"

Dawn giggles. It's unsettling. "Sure. That's Grace and that's Stacey. Are they being unfriendly?"

"Just a tad. I may have startled them."

"We're sitting right here," I say, crossly.

"I'm going to see what Emily's up to," Stacey says, standing. She brushes off the backside of her shorts and walks away. She leaves me. Some friend.

Exit Stacey, enter Abby. Abby saunters over and shouts, "Hey, Bryce!" and high-fives him. "Dawn, you've met Bryce! Bryce's grandparents live behind my grandparents. Bryce and his cousins built the bonfire."

"Excellent bonfire," says Dawn. "It's way cooler than the ones we have in California."

"For real?" replies Bryce, sounding quite impressed with himself.

"For sure."

I snort softly to myself and begin trying to remove my sarong from around Abby's waist. She's knotted it.

Abby slaps my hands. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Not until you buy me dinner and a drink!"

"I'll help with that," says Bryce, getting up and wandering off to where the food's set up. He returns with four open beers. He hands one to Abby and to Dawn, then offers a third to me.

"We're only seventeen."

Bryce shrugs and takes a swig from his own bottle. Abby and Dawn follow suit.

"I'll take Grace's beer," says Abby.

I watch Dawn take a second and third sip. "If my mother comes down and sees you drinking beer, she'll blow a gasket and strangle us both." I shoot a glance at Bryce. "You don't even want to know what she'll do to you."

Dawn lowers the bottle from her mouth, guiltily. "Sorry, I didn't think," she mumbles and hands the beer back to Bryce.

"I'll take Dawn's beer, too!" cries Abby.

Bryce looks directly at me and says, "Want to go for a swim?"

"Sure!" answers Dawn, leaping up and peeling off her shirt. Underneath, she has on a tiny blue bikini top. No wonder Dawn can't afford a car, she spends all her money on bikinis!

Abby manages to pull off her shirt while holding three bottles of beer. The trick doesn't succeed when she attempts to take off her pants. Abby isn't wearing her tankini underneath her clothes. She has on a pair of purple silk panties and a black cotton bra. Standing together, Dawn, Abby, and Bryce are all the exact same height. Short boys are not interesting.

"Coming, Grace?" Dawn asks, unbuttoning her jeans.

I cross my arms and look away, shaking my head.

"Race, race!" shrieks Abby, taking off for the ocean with Dawn in pursuit. Bryce casts a single backward glance at me, then chases Dawn and Abby. Stacey returns to me, bringing Emily and Anna with her. Kristy keeps her distance, as if we have drawn an invisible line between us, through the center of the fire, and neither can or will cross it. Kristy sits with a couple boys who look a lot like Bryce.

"That boy was cute," Emily whispers to me.

"He was short and skinny," I reply.

"He's darling," says Anna. "Abby crushes on him every summer."

"And it's not at all obvious!" I respond, as Abby jumps onto Bryce's back, looping her legs around his middle. They topple over into Dawn.

Anna gives me a wry smile and excuses herself, leaving us for Kristy.

"I'd like to go in the water, too," says Emily, "but I'm afraid that boy might dunk me."

"He wants to dunk Grace," says Stacey. "But I'm not risking my new outfit either."

"Ugh. I would never go out with anyone Abby Stevenson considers dateable. Yuck."

Stacey, Emily, and I stay on our log, keeping warm by the bonfire, watching Dawn and Abby splash in the dark waves, circling round this new boy.


	41. Chapter 41

I trip downstairs Monday morning still in my pajamas. As I cross through the foyer and living room, I hear the loud rumble of voices coming from the kitchen. I wonder if I'll find Dawn and Stacey cooking and singing again, and steel myself for it, and hope to stay in check. There are worse things.

When I push through the kitchen door, I realize I am the last one up this morning. Dad and Dawn are standing together at the stove, Mom's at the sink drinking coffee, and Emily's slumped over the kitchen table with the newspaper, wearing her glasses and looking half-asleep. Through the windows, I see Stacey lounging on the patio in her red bikini. I squint at her. Stacey looks strange. I take down a coffee cup and fill it with the last of the coffee.

"What are you doing?" I ask Dad, pouring creamer into the black coffee.

"Making pancakes," Dad replies, tipping the bowl he's stirring toward me.

"You're doing what?" I say, not believing my eyes. Maybe I should borrow Emily's glasses. Dad always brags that he knows how to cook, but I've never seen it happen.

Dad chuckles. "I used to make pancakes all the time when you were little," he says.

"He did," Mom agrees.

I don't remember that.

"Stacey and I went to the market this morning for blueberries," Dad tells me and next to him, Dawn picks up the carton of blueberries and smiling, waves her hand over it like a spokesmodel. "But instead we bought these at the side of the road."

"Gross."

"People sell fruit at the side of the road all the time in California," says Dawn, like anything that happens in California is immediately acceptable.

"They do in Connecticut, too, but that doesn't mean I want to eat it."

"I don't think you can get salmonella from fruit, Grace," Mom says with a chuckle.

"Actually, I think you can," speaks up Emily from the table.

"I think that's e. coli," says Dad.

"Stacey washed the blueberries. I saw her," Dawn tells me, tipping the carton of blueberries into the pancake batter. "Besides, have you ever thought about the fruit you buy at the supermarket? It's covered in chemicals and pesticides. These blueberries are organic. See the sticker?"

I pretend to stifle a yawn. Then I push between Dad and Dawn. "What can I do to help?" I ask Dad.

"Here you go, Grace," Dad says and hands me the bowl. "You can pour the batter. The griddle's hot enough. Just dip the whisk in…that's it."

I love the smell of pancake batter. It smells like Sunday mornings. Maybe I do remember Dad making pancakes for me. Or maybe I'm imagining someone else's childhood.

The back door clatters open and Stacey's voice rings out, "Hey! Are the pancakes almost ready?"

Mom gasps and fumbles her coffee cup, almost dropping it.

I turn at the noise and nearly scream. "Stacey! What happened to you?" I cry.

"What do you mean?" Stacey asks, confused.

"You look – " I almost say _terrible_ but catch myself. "…orange."

And she does. Her entire body, conveniently revealed by her bikini, and neck and face are a bizarre shade of orange, patchy and darker in certain spots.

Stacey's eyes grow wide and she races out of the kitchen, her feet padding noisily across the foyer. The door to the downstairs bathroom bangs open and Stacey screams.

"Good God," Mom mutters, dumping the remainder of her coffee into the sink. "What am I supposed to tell Maureen? Why didn't you say something, Hal? Didn't you notice when the two of you went out?"

"She looked the same to me," Dad replies.

I look from Dawn to Emily. Both have their hands clamped over their mouths in horror. I smell something burning and whirl around just as smoke begins to rise out of the frying pan. Dad quickly flips the pancakes and removes the griddle from the burner.

Stacey runs back into the kitchen and stops just inside the doorway so we may stare at her in full view. She appears ready to cry.

"Stacey, what did you do to yourself?" I can't control my tongue. "How much of that self-tanner did you put on?"

"I used it a couple times last night and once this morning," she answers, miserably. "I think."

"I don't think you bought the right shade," Mom says in what I suppose is meant as a tactful way.

"Stacey, I don't think anyone will notice," Emily says, hurriedly and earnestly. "Mr. Blume didn't!"

"I am _orange_!" Stacey yells.

"Orange is very in this summer," I tell her.

"Orange clothes! Not orange skin!" Stacey shouts and a few tears trickle down her tangerine-hued cheeks.

Emily jumps out of her seat and rushes to Stacey's side. "Oh, Stacey, it's not so bad!"

Mom crosses the kitchen to the pantry and yanks the door open. She steps inside and emerges with a large box of baking soda. "It's all right, Stacey," she says, going to Stacey and taking her arm. "Let's go up to the deck. Girls, look in the upstairs bathrooms for any body scrubs or salt scrubs or loofahs. Come on, Stacey." Mom leads Stacey onto the patio and we watch them begin the climb to the deck.

"Oh, my gosh! She looks awful!" Dawn cries. "Why would she do that?"

"Gee, Dawn, she didn't do it on purpose," I answer, even though I'm wondering what Stacey possibly could have been thinking. "Don't be so insensitive."

"Oh, yes, Miss Orange Is In," Dawn shoots back. She leaves the kitchen.

"She doesn't look that bad!" Emily protests, following Dawn.

"She looks like an Oompa Loompa!" I cry. It's the honest truth. Not that I'd say it to Stacey's face. Probably not.

Upstairs, in Fiona Fee's bathroom, we find several containers of body scrubs, a loofah puff, a loofah on a handle, and a brand new slice of loofah soap that smells like apples. We take them to my parents' room and go out onto the balcony that wraps around to the deck. Mom has Stacey in the outdoor shower, the bamboo screen mostly obscuring them from outside view. Mom's stripped off her jogging suit and is crouched before Stacey in only a wet t-shirt and lace panties, scrubbing Stacey's legs with a baking soda paste. Stacey removed her bikini top and holds her hands over her breasts. She is soaking wet and crying, her skin rubbed raw red in places. The orange is gone from her face and neck, where the color had been the lightest, but holds firm to her arms, her legs, and her stomach. Her back is a pretty natural golden tan. I try not to stare.

Dawn, Emily, and I leave Mom and Stacey in the outdoor shower. We go back downstairs to where Dad waits in the kitchen. He makes our pancakes and doesn't burn them this time. We eat in mostly silence. There's a damper over the morning.

Mom and Stacey don't appear after breakfast. Dad promises to clean the kitchen, so we go back upstairs. We shower and dress and go about the morning like normal. I mentally plan the day while turning beneath the shower spray, curling my hair, and selecting my shoes. I don't know what we'll do if Stacey's still orange and refuses to leave the house.

When I'm ready for the day, I bound downstairs after checking Emily and Stacey's room for Stacey. Only Emily is there, trying on different headbands. I find Stacey in the kitchen, eating a syrup-free pancake with my mother. She's wrapped in a beach towel, her damp hair pulled into a sloppy ponytail. Her face and neck are normal, naturally tanned by the sun, but her arms, chest, and legs are streaked orange.

"Your mother couldn't get it all off," Stacey says, miserably, staring down at her pancake.

"You look fine. It's hardly noticeable," I assure her. It is, in fact, very noticeable.

"We can try again later," Mom promises, standing and carrying her plate to the sink. "But it's probably best to let it fade naturally."

Dawn and Emily come into the kitchen and also lie to Stacey about her fake tan. Stacey continues to look miserable.

"We can just hang around here today," says Emily.

"Actually," Mom says from the sink where she washes her plate. "I made appointments for you girls at a salon in the village. I thought you might like to take a break from the sun and get manicures and pedicures. I can call and cancel though if you're not interested."

Emily's eyes brighten and she looks to Stacey. I feel my eyes lighting similarly. It would be nice to stay out of the sun for a while. There's not a lot to do inside the house, other than use the exercise room or the sauna.

Stacey shrugs. "You guys go. I'm just going to stay here."

"I'll stay with you," offers Emily.

Stacey shakes her head. "No, no. That's okay. You all go. I brought homework with me that I haven't even started and I have class on Wednesday. I'll just stay here and read about the articles of confederation and feel sorry for myself."

"Brooding never helped anyone," I inform her. "Come on. Get up and get dressed. When do we ever get manicures or pedicures? Never." Not entirely true. Sometimes Gran and I go to Gloriana's in Stoneybrook or to a salon in Greenvale. But that's just me and Gran.

"No, I'm staying here."

Well, I'm not going to beg.

"Fine. What time are the appointments?" I ask Mom.

"Eleven. So, you have – " Mom glances at the clock. "Forty-five minutes."

She might have told us this sooner.

"And I thought that afterward, I would take you girls to the Silver Poppy Tea Room. Fiona recommended it. She said you girls would enjoy it. You'll have to dress nicely though," Mom says because we're all dressed in shorts and t-shirts. "I'll bring Stacey with me when we pick you girls up at the salon."

"Oooh, Mrs. Blume, that sounds fun," chirps Emily.

"Yeah, cool," agrees Dawn.

"Thanks, Mrs. Blume, but I'll pass," Stacey says, going to the sink to rise her plate.

"You don't look _that_ bad," Dawn tells her.

Stacey glares at her.

"Sorry," Dawn apologizes, but it sounds half-hearted. "But if Stacey's skipping out on the salon, then Mrs. Blume, you should just come with us. Then you won't have to pick us up afterward. We can just leave from the salon."

Dawn doesn't know that my mother doesn't drive.

"Yes, come with us, Mrs. Blume," Emily chimes in.

I glance at Stacey to see if her face changes, but it does not. She is resolute in her misery.

"Sure, Mom. Come with us." I want Stacey, but I think I want my mother more.

"All right, but I'll have to change," Mom says. She's in her jogging suit again. "And only if Stacey's certain."

Stacey's certain.

Dad drives us into the village in the minivan from Hell. We've changed out of our beach clothes and into those more befitting of an upscale Hamptons salon. I have on my black capri pants and my black and white sleeveless shirt, the one that criss-crosses in the back. Dawn's wearing a flowing white gauze skirt with a moss-green fitted tee and the chunky black belt she bought yesterday. Emily has on a white and navy flare skirt with a navy-colored sash and teal tulips. She's wearing a short-sleeved white blouse with the skirt. We don't exactly look like we're going to the same place.

Dad drops us off outside the J. Michael Salon on Main Street. Our manicurists are waiting for us when we walk in and immediately whisk us into pedicure chairs. The receptionist brings us cappuccinos while we soak our feet. I hope no one else notices Emily spitting hers back into the cup. Everyone definitely notices Dawn's high-pitched giggles as she tries to jerk her foot away when the manicurist begins filing it. Mom and I keep our eyes trained on our magazines, pretending to not know Dawn.

When we emerge from the salon an hour and a half later, Mom and I have matching french manicures and pedicures. Dawn's nails are painted a metallic green color with silver stripes and Emily's chosen a very demure pink. Dawn and Emily thank my mother profusely for the manicures. I thank her once and that's enough.

Dad's waiting across the street to drive us to lunch. Thankfully, Dawn and Emily don't ask why Mom doesn't drive. I'm sure Emily knows. Dad takes us on a winding road that leads to a small house at the edge of a cliff. Dad lets us out, saying he'll be back in an hour. I wish Mom would drive.

I expected the Silver Poppy Tea Room to be too precious, but instead, it's calmly elegant. The tables are draped with crisp, spotless white tablecloths, held in place by crystal vases filled with red, pink, and orange poppies. One wall is nothing but glass, overlooking the ocean below. The hostess leads us to our reserved table, which has the perfect ocean view. She knows Mom was sent on the recommendation of Fiona Fee. She knows Mom is important. Dawn and Emily are impressed.

Our lunches are brought on white china plates etched along the edges with tiny silver poppies. I ordered the spinach and cheese quiche, like Mom. Emily has the egg salad over a croissant. Dawn has the fruit and cheese platter. The tea room is fairly busy since it's only one o' clock. Dawn, Emily, and I are the youngest ones in the room. Dawn and Emily watch Mom take her first dainty bites of quiche before starting on their own lunches. I'm used to eating in fancy restaurants with my parents and at the country club with Gran.

After lunch is finished, Emily and I share the trio of mini-cheesecakes for dessert. The waitress brings us a pot of orange spice tea. Emily and I polish off the mini-cheesecakes and we drink the warm tea and Mom keeps the conversation going, asking Dawn and Emily about school and where they're applying to college in the fall. She smiles and laughs with them. I am proud that she's my mother.

When Dad takes us back to the house, Dawn, Emily, and I go upstairs in search of Stacey. We find her in the bedroom, sprawled out on her and Emily's bed, asleep on her government textbook. She's in her pajamas again and the short shorts magnificently show off her streaked orange legs. I feel very sorry for her, suddenly, seeing her like this.

I shake her awake just the same.

"Up, up, up!" I cry, shaking her orange shoulder a little harder.

Stacey opens one blue eye and groans. "What color am I?"

"You are _mostly_ white," says Emily.

"You're orange," I follow Emily. With the truth. "But it's not that terrible. Really. You need to get up and take a shower. You also need to eat."

Stacey rolls onto her back. "Your dad brought me a sandwich," she says.

"Let's go swimming then," suggests Emily.

"Yes, no one can see you from the deck," I agree.

"I have a lot of homework," Stacey says.

Emily disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a bottle of bright pink nail polish. "Since you missed out, I can paint your nails," she offers. "I'm not rubbing your feet though!"

"No thanks."

I feel myself growing irritated. Stacey doesn't look _that_ bad. She can put on a pair of pants and we can go out.

Mom pops her head through the open doorway. "Hal and I are going back into town. We have to buy Fiona a new juicer," she tells us.

I watch my parents drive away from the bedroom window. When they're gone, Dawn stands up from her perch on the bed and says in a vague sort of voice, "I think I'll wander over to Abby's and see what she has planned for the afternoon."

"You just want to see if that boy's hanging around there," I reply. She's so transparent.

Dawn doesn't argue because she knows I'm right.

"That boy was cute. I'll go with you," says Emily.

"Coming, Grace?" asks Dawn.

I snort.

Dawn and Emily leave, promising to not be long. Stacey wants to continue reading her boring textbook, but I convince her to take a shower instead. I pack her off to the bathroom with a salt scrub and the hope that she'll return as a normal Stacey. She's usually not so melodramatic. She's behaving like Mary Anne.

While Stacey's in the shower, it's like I'm alone again. I sit in the window of her and Emily's room because they have the best ocean view. I like the peacefulness of the beach house, silent but for the rush of water in the bathroom. I miss the stillness of being alone. It surrounds my every day life and I welcome it now.

I go outside to the front porch and sit on the porch swing with the morning newspaper. I curl my long legs under myself and flip through the pages. It's warm out and the breeze is heavy with salt. I sit and think of nothing.

My eyes are closed tight when I hear Dawn and Emily walking up the drive. Emily in that stupid, stupid hat. I'm chucking it in the ocean before we leave tomorrow.

"You're looking very zen," comments Dawn.

"What? Oh. Hm," I reply, folding the newspaper that's fallen from my lap. "Want to swim?"

Dawn and Emily exchange a glance. "Well…" says Dawn. "We were just down at Abby's, you know, and that Bryce was there. He said he'd take us out in his grandfather's boat. Want to go?" Dawn grins.

"No."

"Why not?" demands Emily. "I've never been on a boat before! My parents don't like them."

Dawn clasps her hands in front of her. "Pleeeease?" she begs. "Please? He's so cute."

I stare at her in disgust. "Don't you have a boyfriend back home?"

"We're on a break for the summer. I can date whomever I want. Justin doesn't care."

I raise my eyebrows. "So, now you and Bryce are dating?" I reply.

"No!" she cries and then smiles. "But he wants to take me out on his boat."

"And how does your new best friend Abby feel about that? Hm?"

Dawn's face falls, but she doesn't have a chance to answer because my parents pull up in the minivan. Dad beeps the horn at us. When Mom gets out of the minivan, she has a large box in her arms. There's a picture of a juicer on the front. "Hello, girls!" Mom greets us, cheerfully. "Do you see my new household appliance? I feel very domesticated."

"Hey, Mrs. Blume can we – " starts Dawn, but I kick her in the ankle.

"What's that Dawn?" Mom answers.

"Nothing, Mom. Dawn just wants to know if we can use the washing machine."

"Certainly. Just don't ask me for help."

"Come on, my dear. Let's get that box into the kitchen."

Mom and Dad go into the house and I shoot Dawn a look. "You can't just come out and ask her things like that," I scold Dawn.

"Why not? She's cool."

Dawn knows nothing.

"Well, you need to ask her," Emily informs me. "Because I want to go sailing."

I roll my eyes and go into the house. Mom and Dad are laughing in the kitchen, but I head upstairs. Dawn and Emily thunder up the stairs after me. I go into Stacey and Emily's bedroom, where Stacey's sitting at the vanity blow drying her hair. She switches off the hair dryer. "Where have you been?" she asks me.

"You need to get dressed, Stacey," announces Emily, charging into the room. "We're going sailing with the Stevenson twins and Dawn's cute boy." She throws open the closet door and begins rifling through her and Stacey's clothes.

I groan. The Stevenson twins are coming? Of course. I should have known. Will Kristy come, too? If she does, I'll stay on the opposite side of the boat. She is different from Abby. In some undefinable way. "Is Kristy coming?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Probably," replies Dawn. "Why?"

"No reason. I'm only going if Stacey goes." I attempt to send Stacey psychic vibrations with my gaze. It doesn't work.

"I guess," she says, slowly. "But Dawn, the last time you went sailing, didn't you crash into a desert island?"

"No. My friend Maggie and I go yachting all the time. And it's not like I'm navigating or anything. Trust me." Dawn grins.

"Right," mutters Stacey and switches on the hair dryer again.

Dawn shoves me out the door to ask my mother. I find her in Fiona Fee's den, pouring a drink. It's just like at home.

"Mom? Can we go sailing?" I ask her.

Mom takes a long drink. "God, I hate sailing. We don't even have a boat, Grace."

"No, Mom. I don't want _you_ to take us sailing. The Stevenson twins invited Dawn and Emily sailing. _I _think it's a lame idea, but they want to go for _some_ reason." I roll my eyes. "Can we go?"

"You aren't going to ask your father?" Mom says, snidely.

I rest a long stare on her.

"Don't look at me like that. Of course you can't go. I don't want you out on the open water with that Stevenson girl. You and your friends are my responsibility, Grace. If Emily falls in the ocean and is eaten by a shark, I'll never hear the end of it from Marian Bernstein."

"You're being silly," I tell Mom. I don't know why people think I'm spoiled. She doesn't let me do _anything._

"I am not, Grace," says Mom, draining her glass. She pours another gin and tonic and a second for my father. "How is this for serious – you are not going anywhere with the Stevenson girl. Or that Kristy Thomas. They only get you into trouble. Just like Cokie. You're fortunate that I'm permitting you to run around with Dawn after she drove you off the road and into a tree. Swimming in Fiona's pool and playing on the beach is one thing. Actually going some place is entirely different. No."

I feel my temper begin to boil. She still doesn't listen to me. Around and around in circles, that's the only place we go.

Dad walks into the den. "I thought you were bringing me a drink, my dear," he says to Mom. He pats my back as he passes. "Hello, Grace," he says and accepts the drink from Mom. He clinks his glass against hers.

"You know, it's three o' clock in the afternoon," I inform them, then spin around and stomp out of the den.

I bypass Stacey and Emily's room and head straight for my own. I peel off my clothes and put on the shorts and tee I was wearing earlier today. I sit down at the vanity and begin french braiding my hair. Across the hall, I hear the others chatting happily, thinking we're getting ready to set sail. I don't even want to go sailing. I don't want to be anywhere near Abby or Kristy or Bryce. But I want Dawn to be happy. I want to give her what she wants.

I pause, fingers buried in the red waves of my hair, and look at my reflection in the mirror. I surprise myself.

Mom comes in through the open door. She's still holding the gin and tonic. Why? Why?

"Hal suggested a compromise," Mom tells me. She sips her drink. "He doesn't think we should worry since you're not an irresponsible girl. Hal thinks that if your friends get permission from their parents to go sailing, then we should allow it. So…" Mom nods, which I guess signifies her own permission granted.

"Thanks," I say and begin to ask Mom to finish my hair, but she turns and leaves the room. I hear her calling to my friends.

Downstairs in the den, Mom stands guard while my friends phone home. She's lost her drink somewhere along the way. Stacey and Dawn quickly get permission from their mothers. Emily has a drawn out argument with her parents during which Mom and I exchange eye rolls. Finally, the Bernsteins give in, which everyone knew they would.

We leave the beach house a little while later and walk down to Abby's house. Emily's also changed back into her shorts and t-shirt and Stacey looks ridiculous in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. I don't look so fantastic either, though, since Mom forced me to wear her bucket hat. Dawn refused to change out of her skirt.

Dawn called Abby ahead of time, so she and Anna wait for us in the driveway, seated on the hood of Abby's red Mustang. Bryce is with them, leaning against the back of a black BMW convertible.

"Woo woo!" Abby screams, jumping off the Mustang. "Let's get this show on the road!"

She's wearing my sarong as a top.

"You look stupid," I inform her. "Can we go already? My parents want us home by seven."

"Shouldn't we wait for Kristy?" asks Dawn.

Abby waves her hand. "She's upstairs on the phone with her mom. She doesn't want to go sailing."

Dawn looks disappointed.

I am relieved.

"We have to drive out to the marina," Bryce explains. He opens the passenger side door to his BMW. "You should ride up front, Grace," he tells me.

I make a face. "I'm riding with Abby," I reply.

Bryce's face falls slightly. "But I have the Beemer," he says.

Emily snorts. "My uncle drives a BMW. It's not that impressive."

"I'll ride in front," Dawn offers and climbs into the front seat.

I don't actually want to ride with Abby, so I crawl over Dawn into the backseat of the BMW. Emily ducks into the back of the Mustang. Stacey looks from the BMW to the Mustang and back again. She takes a step toward the BMW.

"Come with us, Stace," calls Abby.

Stacey doesn't argue and joins Emily in the backseat of Abby's car. Anna hops into the front seat and slams the car door and Abby rolls out of the driveway. Bryce starts the Beemer's engine and follows her. Dawn chatters all the way to the marina, mostly about Westhampton Beach and about California. She asks Bryce a lot of questions. I don't listen. And I don't respond when Bryce looks over his shoulder to speak to me. I stare at the side of the road, speeding by us as we hurtle along in the BMW. Dawn's golden hair blows in my face. I bat it away, but it keeps on.

I don't know anything about boats. There are a few sailboat enthusiasts at school, and even a sailing club, but I've never taken notice. I like the water, but for swimming. Bryce's grandparents' sailboat is called the _Bella Lara_ and it's…well, it's white. It's white and not as big as I expected. Aunt Corinne and Uncle Cullen once took me to a party on a yacht. That boat was a lot bigger.

Stacey, Emily, and I lay out on the deck while the others scurry around the boat, preparing to set sail. I let Stacey wear my hat. There are orange splotches on the backs of her hands. Bryce raises anchor, or whatever, and we cast off. Emily squeals and claps as we leave the marina.

"It's like you've never been outside before," I inform her. "I can't believe your mother let you come out on a boat. Isn't she afraid of your hot tub?"

"Please, I didn't call my parents!" Emily exclaims. "I called Uncle Malcolm and talked to his answering machine. I do it all the time. He never tattles on me."

Stacey gasps. "You are devious, Emily Bernstein!"

"I'm impressed." I say with an approving nod.

"As you should be," says Emily, slipping on her sunglasses. She leans back on her elbows and stretches out. Luckily, she did not find her hat where I hid it beneath my parents' mattress.

Anna joins us while Dawn and Abby hover around Bryce at the other end of the boat. She's stripped down to her tankini and suns herself on the deck with us. Stacey, Emily, and Anna have a lot to talk about while I concentrate on applying sunscreen to my arms and legs. When Dawn and Abby finally wander over to us, they're also in their swimsuits. Bryce passes out sodas and then plops down next to me. He's removed his shirt. He has a deep tan and the muscle tone of a gerbil.

"Pretty cool, huh?" he remarks.

I sip my diet coke and shrug, gazing out at the water.

"If I'd had more notice, I would have brought the snorkeling gear. But my cousins took off with it this morning."

I shrug again. "Snorkeling's okay, I guess. I got certified in scuba diving while in Fiji last month. It's a lot better."

"You've been to Fiji? Awesome! Where else have you been?"

"My parents take me everywhere," I answer and turn to Emily. "I thought we could watch the fireworks tonight from the pool deck. Do you think that's a good view?" I freeze Bryce out.

He doesn't take the hint. "My cousins and I are watching from the beach, if you want to come," he says.

"Hey, Bryce," says Dawn, sitting down on his other side. She turns her back to him and lifts her hair. "Will you rub sunscreen on my back?"

"Yeah, sure," says Bryce, taking the bottle from her hand. He forgets me and happily lathers Dawn's bronzed back with the white cream.

Stacey rolls her eyes at me, dramatically, while Emily appears positively scandalized since the only boy who's ever touched her was Paul Stern the last time he gave her a noogie. Abby just glares.

"That feels really nice," Dawn says while Bryce massages her shoulders.

"Geez, get a room," I tell them.

"Want me to do you next?" Bryce offers, flashing a bright smile at me.

"No, I'm wearing a shirt, thanks," I point out and return to my conversation with Emily. It's not that I don't like boys. I simply don't like _every_ boy. I have high standards and I don't compromise them. Bryce is way out of his league.

"It's hot out here," comments Stacey, wiping her brow.

I lower my voice. "Stace, would you just take off your shirt? No one cares."

Stacey shakes her head. "No way! Not with Emily flaunting that camera around," says Stacey, gesturing to Emily, who's snapping a photo of the Stevenson twins posing near the railing. "Or with Dawn's wannabe boyfriend hanging around," she hisses.

"I thought you didn't care about boys anymore."

Stacey blushes. "I don't," she says and looks away.

In the next hour, Bryce rubs sunscreen on Dawn's legs, Abby's back (which is mostly covered by her tankini top, but whatever), and brings me three sodas that I don't want. He continues striking up conversations with me and acts like I should be impressed that he's starting at NYU in the fall. I'm not. Dawn's impressed enough for the both of us, so I leave her to fawn over him, and join Stacey and Emily in the cabin down below. We stay down there, lounging on the uncomfortable bench seating and drinking sodas. Up above, there are loud noises echoing down to us, feet stomping on the deck and high-pitched shrieks followed by gales of laughter. I roll my eyes at Stacey and Emily. I'm glad we outgrew all that in eighth grade.

We're interrupted by a loud shriek and a splash.

"Oh, my goodness!" cries Emily, leaping up and rushing for the stairs.

Stacey and I follow. When we reach the deck, Dawn, Anna, and Bryce are crowded at the railing, leaning far over it and laughing. We join them to see Abby bobbing in the ocean, her wet curls plastered to her face and shoulders. She's such a show off.

"Won't someone jump in and save me?" she exclaims. "I'm drowning!" She dunks under the water.

And so transparent.

I roll my eyes at Stacey and we leave the railing. We sit together on the other side of the boat and watch Bryce jump off the railing. Not to be outdone, Dawn jumps in, too, and then screams that the water's cold as ice.

When Dawn climbs back onto the boat, she grabs a towel and heads straight for Stacey and I. "Isn't this so much fun?" she asks, toweling off her soaking hair.

"Not really," mutters Stacey, who's sweating again.

I shrug.

"Both of you need to lighten up," Dawn tells us. "If my friend Sunny was here – "

"If your friend Sunny was here, we'd all be pregnant and headed for Nova Scotia by now," finishes Stacey.

Dawn frowns. "Stop sending me mixed signals," she says and walks off.

Stacey blushes and turns away from me.

Bryce flops down next to me and shakes his head, like a dog, sending sprinkles of water flying at me. I make a face, but say nothing, hoping he'll leave me alone and go away. He does not.

"You're staying at Fiona Fiore's house," he says to me. He pushes back his dripping bangs. "I've always wanted to tour that place." He grins, hopefully. He waits, but I don't deliver. "Dawn says your parents work for her. That's cool. Did I see your mom last night? Was she a model?"

"No, she's an accountant."

"That's not very glamorous!" Bryce chuckles. He pushes his bangs back again. "So, like, are you a model? Because you could be. You're really tall. Do you model for Fiona Fee? I would totally look at the Fiona Fee catalogue if you were in it."

"Is that supposed to be flattering?" I ask.

"Well…yeah. Yes. You look like a model. You're totally hot. Don't all girls want to be models?"

"Thank you, it _is _flattering to know that you want to stare at pictures of me in silk teddies and lace bras," I snap and stand, grabbing Stacey's hand and leading her away. I did want to be a model, once, when I was in middle school. Cokie was in a modeling program at Bellair's department store and I wanted to join her. My parents wouldn't let me. Mom said there were more important things and to focus on my tennis lessons and schoolwork. I hated them for a while after that. A few times, I've been at their office and the other executives have told me I should model for the catalogue. Mom says that it's over her dead body that I'll parade around in my underwear so perverts and degenerates can whack off to my photographs in catalogues. I don't know how she keeps her job.

"What a loser," Stacey hisses to me. We huddle together at the front of the boat, casting annoyed looks in Bryce's direction. Dawn's cornered him again, snapping him with her wet towel. He makes a grab for it. Dawn could do so much better. She should be embarrassed. I'm sort of embarrassed for her.

"Can you believe him?" I whisper back.

"Boys are so disgusting. Dawn and Abby have been throwing themselves at him all afternoon and here he is, trying to get in your pants! That's all teenage boys care about. Finding stupid girls to screw."

"Stacey, that's so uncouth."

"It's true. I can't wait to go to college and find a real man. Boys are jerks."

"I know." That's why I only date college guys.

"We were having a fine time before Bryce came along. Boys ruin everything," Stacey whispers with that familiar underlying current of bitterness. Like me, she is still scarred by what she's done.

We glance over again at Bryce and Dawn horsing around at the other end of the boat. It's odd seeing her like this. Back in Stoneybrook, she never paid much attention to Paul or Ross or Pete Black. She's different now, not someone I expected. I don't mention it to Stacey because I already hear her response resonating in my mind, tinged in a know-it-all I-told-you-so. _You don't really know Dawn. _

We return to the marina when dusk begins settling on the sea. Emily insists on taking our photos at the marina, she and Stacey and Dawn and I posed beside the sailboat. And then Emily wants the Stevenson twins with us. Abby tries to stand beside me, but I elbow her out of the way, so I am between Stacey and Dawn.

Bryce wants me to ride in his car again, but I pretend to be preoccupied with loading the ice chest into Abby's trunk. I overhear Emily tell him that I have a boyfriend back home. I ride back with Abby, which means Anna has to ride with Dawn and Bryce.

I am not a complete ingrate. Outside Abby's house, I thank Bryce for taking us out on his sailboat. I even extend my hand, so it is clear I am nothing more than a passing acquaintance, but he has to be an ass and try to kiss my hand, so I jerk it away. Dawn hugs him and then the Stevenson twins in turn. Kristy comes out to the driveway dressed in a splatter painted American flag t-shirt and Dawn hugs her, too.

"I wish you didn't have to leave tomorrow," Abby moans, solely to Dawn, not the rest of us. "Our friends Meg and Greer are coming tomorrow. You'd love them."

I bet.

"Bye! Bye!" they call to us and we walk down the street toward Fiona Fee's. Abby shouts out, "See you at Claudia's party!"

"Claudia's having a party?" inquires Stacey.

"Yeah for her birthday," answers Dawn. "Isn't anyone else going? Claudia and Erica dropped off an invitation last week."

The rest of us are not invited. Why would we be? Claudia's not our friend.

Dawn's making all sorts of friends these days. I keep that to myself.

We're nearing the end of Fiona Fee's driveway when Mom's voice calls to us. We stop, look around, and finally find her, leaning over the wood railing on the deck of the house next door. Dad stands behind her, waving. They're holding gigantic margarita glasses. Another couple stands with them also waving and holding glasses.

"These are the Andersens!" Mom shouts down to us.

They've made new friends. I can't believe it took so long.

We wave to the Andersens, who wave back gaily. I think they're all plastered.

Great.

Stacey and I root around in the kitchen while Dawn, who's still in only her bikini, goes upstairs to change and Emily goes into the den to telephone her parents for real. I pull everything out of the refrigerator, all we have left of our groceries, mostly cheese and fruit, a half-pound of bacon, a few eggs, a quarter of a gallon of milk. We won't be going out for dinner if Dad's been drinking. I can't do much more than grill sandwiches and open cans of soup, so after I line the food on the counter, there isn't a lot else for me to do. Stacey and I snack on some grapes and Stacey confesses she's not been good about strictly sticking to her diet. I don't know what to say to that.

When Dawn enters the kitchen, she's with my parents. I freeze with a grape half-crushed between my front teeth, watching them. They walk straight. Maybe they've not been drinking all afternoon. Maybe my friends won't know.

"Back safe and sound, I see," says Mom. She sounds normal, if a bit loud. She's good at hiding it.

"See, Fay? There was no reason to worry. The girls are responsible."

I chew the grape and swallow it. "What were you doing next door?" I ask.

"Visiting the Andersens," Mom answers. "They're renting the house next door for the summer. We met them yesterday. What did you think we were doing while you gallivanted all over town? He's a proctologist and she's a documentary filmmaker."

"I hope they don't collaborate," quips Dawn.

Mom laughs.

"We invited them for dinner," says Dad.

"The Andersens want to bring dinner to us. They have a bunch of lobsters in their refrigerator. We know Emily can't eat lobster, but will she mind if we do? The Andersens have some chicken breasts that we can bake for her."

"She won't mind," I tell Mom. We eat seafood and pork in front of her all the time at Uncle's Ed Chinese restaurant.

"Are the lobsters alive?" asks Dawn, paling.

"Of course," says Mom.

"You're going to kill them? In this kitchen?"

"Well, _I'm_ not," replies Mom.

Emily walks into the kitchen and demands to know what we're standing around talking about and why Dawn looks ready to pass out. She doesn't mind about the lobsters. She even passes on the chicken, saying she's fine with the steamed vegetables and baked potatoes the Andersens plan to bring.

"They already have the chicken," Mom insists.

"Lobsters scream when they're put in boiling water," Dawn informs us.

"They do not," I argue.

"You want chicken, too?" asks Mom.

"I can't believe you're going to murder lobsters right here in this kitchen!" Dawn cries. "You're going to drop them into boiling water and listen to them scream?"

"Dawn, lobsters don't scream," Dad explains, calmly. "They don't have vocal cords. The screaming is only air releasing from underneath the shell."

"Lobsters don't even have brains," says Emily. "They can't feel pain. Not like people do."

"How do you know about lobsters? You're Jewish," I point out.

"What does that have to do with anything?" demands Emily.

"It's still barbaric," insists Dawn.

"We can kill them beforehand, if it bothers you that much," offers Dad. "I'll go over there now and do it. You don't have to eat the lobster either. Come, my dear, we'll help them carry everything over."

Mom smiles at Dawn, but it's sort of vacant. It reminds me of Gran.

When my parents leave, Dawn nearly explodes. "How can your father be so nonchalant about murdering an innocent animal?" she exclaims.

"He's from a fishing village in Maine. Murdering lobsters is what they do," I answer. I am annoyed. It's just a bunch of ugly lobsters. Dad isn't next door drowning kittens.

"Oh…was his dad a lobsterman?" Dawn asks, her resolve appearing to falter.

"No. He was a mortician," I reply. Although, I think he was mostly a drunk.

"He has no excuse then. It's disgusting! How would you like to be thrown into a pot of boiling water? Boiled alive! I bet you'd scream, too. How does anyone know it doesn't hurt them?"

"I've been waiting for this," mumbles Stacey.

"Shut up, Stacey," snaps Dawn. She storms out of the kitchen.

I'm sick of them both. "Come on, Emily, let's clean up the patio. Mom and Dad will want to eat out there," I suggest, heading for the back door. It crosses my mind that Emily will stay behind with Stacey, side with her like she has all weekend. Choose her. But Emily follows me, saying something to Stacey on the way out. I don't catch it.

When Mom and Dad return, they bring the Andersens and the Andersens' entire kitchen. The Andersens come with a box of lobsters and a plate of chicken breasts and a lobster pot full of vegetables, and loaves of bread and even a key lime pie. Dad and Dr. and Mrs. Andersen come into the kitchen with arms loaded. Mom carries the wine. Dad killed the lobsters at the Andersens' house, but Dawn stays upstairs, so it doesn't much matter. Dad wants Stacey and I to take the lobster pot to the beach to fill it with seawater, claiming that's how it's done in Maine. Mom refuses to allow it. She says people urinate in the ocean.

Dr. and Mrs. Andersen, or Dick and Michelle, set straight to work digging through Fiona Fee's cabinets for the vegetable steamer and the cutting boards and baking sheets. Dr. Andersen looks close to Dad's age while Mrs. Andersen is a lot younger. She looked older on her deck, but up close she's young, probably in her early-thirties. I'm surprised Mom approves of her. She rails against men chasing younger women.

Dawn apologizes upon her return to the kitchen. She helps Emily and I finish setting the patio tables. Stacey remains inside slicing and buttering the loaves of bread. I wish Dawn being my friend were enough for Stacey. She tried.

My parents and the Andersens sit at the large patio table while Stacey and I share the smaller one. Dawn refuses to eat near the lobsters, claiming the smell makes her nauseous, so she and Emily eat in the kitchen. Stacey manages to bite her tongue and not comment and throughout dinner, we make polite conversation. Stacey talks a lot about Mary Anne, like she's afraid I might forget her, and wonders and worries at how Mary Anne's surviving in the woods with Julie. Frankly, I'm more concerned about Julie and her low threshold for whining.

Halfway through dinner, the fireworks start. They're launched over the ocean and burst over the darkened water in bright, brilliant reds and yellows and purples and blues. Dawn and Emily hurry outside and the four of us climb the staircase to the deck. Our view is non-obscured. Dawn and Emily perch on the railing while Stacey and I lean over it. The fireworks explode, light the sky, and fade. Down below, on the beach, crowds are gathered, the dark bodies huddled together, and some people break off, running along the sand with sparklers hoisted high. I watch them, anonymous and faceless, until an especially loud bang draws my attention skyward again. The fireworks continue, following one after another, bursting to life before the previous has fully died. And suddenly, it's over. There is nothing more.

We stay on the deck much longer. It's our last night and this time tomorrow, I'll be home again, in my bedroom, surrounded by all my things, and my parents will be down the hall, preparing for their next day, their return to work. I don't miss my old life.

My friends and I clean the kitchen while my parents and the Andersens remain on the deck, polishing off more bottles of wine and growing noisy. Dawn won't touch the lobster shells and neither will Emily. At least Emily has an excuse. I wonder if Dawn thinks the chicken she ate tonight died of natural causes.

Stacey, Emily, and I play cards in their bedroom while Dawn showers, probably imagining she smells like lobster. She definitely smells like the dirty ocean. Emily's big into cards and I can't keep up. Dawn eventually wanders in with a towel tied around her head. Downstairs, the front door opens and closes, the Andersens finally leaving. Mom laughs very loudly, the sound drifting up the stairs, filling the hallway and our room. My parents come upstairs, making a lot of noise. They don't look for us. They head to their bedroom and the door slams behind them.

We deal Dawn in, but when she starts yawning uncontrollably, we deal her out again. She lies down on the carpet and pretends to sleep. Stacey, Emily, and I continue playing. I begin getting the hang of 500 Rum, catching up to Emily and Stacey. Emily refuses to play Crazy Eights, which I killed at in middle school. The time flies past.

I don't hear Mom when she comes in and she startles us all by saying, "You're still awake? It's late." She doesn't slur her words and walks into the room in a straight line. My mother can hold her liquor. She's removed her make up and changed out of her clothes into a shorts and tank top pajama set in soft pink with a gold floral print. "You girls need to get ready for bed. We'll want to leave in the early afternoon tomorrow. We don't want to wait too late and have to fight traffic."

"Yes, Mrs. Blume," agrees Emily.

"We'll go to bed now," says Stacey.

Mom smiles. Her eyes are tired. "Sleep well, girls," she tells us. "Stacey, Emily, don't leave that window open. Grace, close it while you're up. Be sure to lock it. Good night, girls."

"Good night, Mrs. Blume," my friends reply, even Dawn, sleepily from the floor.

"Good night, Mom," I say, crossing to the window. I stick my head out into the cool night air. On the beach, people are still setting off bottle rockets. I duck back inside and slam the window shut.

It's very late.

I lay in bed, considering what we'll do tomorrow. We can spend a little time on the beach. My parents will probably take us to lunch in the village. Mom may want to look in some shops. We'll likely leave by two o' clock. My mind is already going, but I want to stay. I begin to drift off, my thoughts slowing. I am in that funny place between sleep and consciousness, the place that begins to blur into dreams. I am there when I am frightened bolt upright, gasping, by a blood-curdling scream.


	42. Chapter 42

I'm out of bed in a flash, sprinting for the door. I charge into the hallway just as Dawn flies out of her room. She's in nothing but her bikini bottoms and a sports bra.

"Was that you?" she shrieks.

"No!"

There's a crash and another scream, loud and violent. Down the hall, a door swings open and out run Mom and Dad. "What's wrong? What's happened?" shouts Mom, racing for us. And the scream continues.

I hurtle forward, grabbing the doorknob to Stacey and Emily's bedroom. I throw the door open to be greeted by the darkness and the scream. Dawn pushes against me in the doorway. It seems to take Mom and Dad hours to run the length of the hallway.

I flick on the light.

Stacey stands on the bed, brandishing a lamp. It's lost its shade. Emily's bolt upright in bed, still beneath the jewel-toned comforter, mouth open wide in terror. She's the source of the scream. She doesn't see us, she continues on, the long scream streaming from her mouth. She's deafening.

Stacey and Emily are not alone.

Bryce stands frozen at Emily's bedside. Stacey swings the lamp at him.

It takes seconds. It feels like slow motion.

Mom shoves between Dawn and I, flying forward into the room. "What's going on in here?" she demands. "Is someone hurt?" Her eyes land on Bryce. "Who are you?" she screeches.

"We woke up and he was in here, Mrs. Blume!" yells Stacey, taking another swing at Bryce, who jumps beyond her reach.

"Who is this?" demands Dad from behind me. "I want an explanation, young man. Step away from those girls."

"Stop screaming, Emily!" I shout at her.

"What are you doing in here?" Mom shrieks at Bryce, her entire body flushing dark crimson to match the color of her hair. Beside her, Dawn's ashen-faced, a strange contrast.

"I…I…I thought this was Grace's room," Bryce stammers. "I saw her in the window. I got your note."

My mouth falls open.

"Grace?" Dad says. "Grace?" He manages to sound calm.

Mom does not.

Mom explodes.

"What did you want in my daughter's room?" she screams and loses control. She runs at him and he runs from her. He jumps up onto Stacey and Emily's bed and races across it and Mom follows, leaping in her bare feet onto the bed and across, knocking Stacey back into the headboard. Stacey drops the lamp and it shatters, the bulb and the glass base smashing onto the hardwood floor. Emily bursts into tears. Mom doesn't stop. Mom chases Bryce around the room, ignoring Dad as he calls her name. Bryce comes at us, barreling through us, like we are nothing, like we are air.

Mom knocks through the hole he's formed. She's out of the room and down the hall, screaming at him all the way. I look around the room at ashen-faced Dawn and my bewildered Dad, and Stacey stunned up against the wall and Emily hysterical in bed. And I do what I do best, what I've trained to do all summer. I chase after my mother.

Down the hall and down the stairs. Sliding across the foyer and out the open front door. I race into the cool ocean air, jumping down the front steps, and landing in the dirt in my bare feet. Mom is not so far ahead and neither is Bryce. We're in slow motion again, like we are moving underwater. The sea breeze hits my face and I call out, "Mom! Stop! Mom!" and after my words, I hear another voice, not in front of me calling back, but behind me. "Mrs. Blume!" it shouts. "Mrs. Blume, wait!" It's Dawn.

Even farther back, I hear my father calling, "Fay! Fay!" but he has no chance. He is too distant. I am closer and gaining. I am so close I see in the moonlight, the gold reflecting on my mother's pajamas. I am so close I see the grace in her step as she leaps over a hedge when Bryce tries cutting through someone's yard. He doesn't lose her and she doesn't lose me.

"Mom! Stop!" I shout again. I don't want her to catch Bryce. I haven't had time to be angry with him, or to wonder what he wanted in my room. Mom's wondering enough for everyone, she's wondering it in her screams at him on the street.

Abby's grandparents' house nears in the distance. Abby, Anna, and Kristy are on the front lawn, dancing around with sparklers lit before them, despite the lateness of the hour. They move in slow motion like we do, twirling on the lawn, sending sparks flickering and burning out in the nighttime. I know this is where we're headed, where we're crashing to a stop.

The Stevenson twins and Kristy turn around in time to see Mom catch Bryce. Mom reaches out and grabs the collar of his shirt. She jerks him backward and he tumbles, sliding across the cement and the gravel. Mom stumbles with him, but does not release him. She grips his shirt and pulls him up again. He struggles against her. Mom smacks him upside the head. She boxes his ears. She shrieks that she wants to know what he wanted. He cries out, high pitched and frightened, like a rabbit in a trap.

Suddenly.

She lets him go.

"What's wrong with your mother?" shouts Kristy.

Mom steps back and gasps for air. She gasps again and turns around. Her chest heaves upward and she gulps like she wants to drink the air around her. Bryce steals his chance and takes off. He dashes and disappears into the night. Mom gasps again, the gasps growing quicker and louder and more desperate. I stand frozen, watching and knowing.

"Mrs. Blume!" exclaims Dawn.

Dad yells to me and to Mom in the distance. He sounds very far off.

"What's wrong with her?" cries Anna, shrilly.

"Oh, God! She's hyperventilating!" yells Abby and she darts toward the house, calling for her own mother and grandparents.

I do nothing.

I watch Mom's eyes glaze over in the moonlight and the glow of a nearby streetlamp. Her gaze grows glassy and her eyes roll back. She falls back onto the street and her legs shoot out and stiffen while her upper body convulses, twitching on the rough gravel. Mom's arms jerk upward, bending at the elbows and stay raised above her, moving up and down with her body.

Anna screams.

"Mom!" I cry, knowing she can't hear, can't stop. I am surprised even though I knew it was coming.

"Fay!" comes Dad's voice and he charges passed me, dropping onto the ground beside Mom, quickly and gently rolling her onto her side. He holds her head, so it does not bang against the gravel. I should have done that. I know what to do.

"Should we call an ambulance? Should we take her to the hospital?" asks Kristy at my elbow.

"No! No! She's fine!" I answer and move forward, dropping to the ground on Mom's other side, blocking her face from Kristy's and Anna's and Dawn's view. I stare down at Mom, eyes rolled back into her head, her arms jerking outward at me. The long, slim fingers of her left hand brush against my pajama top. Along the street, lights flick on inside houses and on porches. Front doors clatter open and out people pour, onto their front porches to stare. Behind me, I hear Abby's footfalls stamping across her wooded porch, followed by an echo of thundering feet trailing after her.

Then my mother stills.

It's over in less than two minutes.

Like everything else, it feels like an eternity.

My father scoops my mother into his arms. She is unconscious and hangs in his arms long-limbed and limp. Abby's mother and grandparents spill onto the lawn, tightening the belts of their bathrobes, asking in high voices what has happened. My father speaks calmly, reassuring them briskly, and leaving them behind, heading back toward Fiona Fee's house. I watch him retreat with my mother, her head tipped back and I feel for her the embarrassment I know would blaze within her if she knew. Kristy's at my side again like a pesky gnat and I brush her away. I rise from the street and begin to follow, passing Dawn, standing at the curb in her palm tree bikini bottoms and sports bra. She looks ready to faint.

We've woken the whole neighborhood. Dad carries Mom into the house and up the stairs to their bedroom. Dr. Andersen comes and the man renting the house next door to him, who is a neurologist, comes. The woman living across the street is a dentist and she comes, too. Apparently, everyone in Westhampton Beach is a doctor.

Stacey pops her head out of her room, as Dawn and I reach the top of the stairs, trailing Dad. I forgot about Stacey. I forgot about Emily. "What happened to your mom?" Stacey asks, panicked.

"She fell," I lie.

Mom's still unconscious when Dad lays her on the bed. What happened after she had the seizure in Bellair's? What happened after she hit the telephone pole? I don't remember. I remember the last seizure she had, she slept for hours.

"Is she all right?" Dawn asks from the doorway. She hasn't regained her color.

"Perfectly fine," Dad answers, which sounds exactly like all the lies we tell. "Grace, get Fay's pills from the bathroom, so Dr. Andersen can see them."

I rush into the bathroom, grateful to do more than hover. I still have that underwater feel. I don't know how Dad can act like he's in the middle of his every day routine. Wake up, eat breakfast, wife seizes, catch the train, make an early meeting. It will never be ordinary to me.

I open Mom's cosmetics case and dig through for the pill bottles. They aren't there. I open the medicine cabinet, but nothing's inside but a pair of toenail clippers and an ancient tube of Neosporin. I slide open all the sink drawers, rifling through the contents, shoving aside bars of soaps and washcloths. Panic rises in my chest, tightening so I can almost not breathe. I begin to surface from underwater. I slam the drawers shut and overturn Mom's cosmetics case. I knock lipstick tubes and eye shadow pots and tweezers and compacts into the sink and onto the floor. I shake out the case and when I know it's empty, I overturn Dad's bag, too. I do not find Mom's pills. I saw her on Saturday, standing at this sink, searching through her case. She didn't bring her pills. She forgot them. She always forgets them.

Dad sends me away when I tell him.

He dismisses me. He shuts the door.

Why doesn't she take her pills? Why isn't she careful? Why doesn't she _care_?

I walk briskly down the hall, my legs twitching, my feet on fire. I want to cry. I want to scream.

"What was that?" Dawn asks from behind me. "What's wrong with your mom?"

I stop and turn my head. "She has epilepsy. Don't tell," I answer. Like everyone in Westhampton Beach doesn't know.

I walk into Stacey and Emily's room. Emily's in bed still, red-faced with tear-stained cheeks, sitting Indian-style and clutching her ankles. Stacey's beside her, a comforting arm wrapped around her back. How long were we gone? Five minutes? Ten?

"What happened?" I ask just as Stacey says, "Your mom fell?"

"She's fine," I say. "What happened in here?"

Emily bursts into tears.

"Did he do something to you?" I ask, uncertain if I really want to know. "What was he doing in here?"

"Looking for you, apparently," replies Stacey, giving me a critical stare.

"I didn't invite him up to your room!" I protest. "Don't be absurd."

"He came up here for something," says Stacey.

"You're being a jerk," I tell her. "Emily, why are you crying?"

"You don't even know," snaps Stacey.

She doesn't know. She doesn't know what's happened to my mother, that my mother's sick and won't admit it, that she doesn't take her medication, and for all her exercise regimes and sun shunning, doesn't take care of herself.

Dad comes in through the open doorway and raps on the frame. "Can you explain what happened, girls?" he asks. Dad looks exhausted.

"I don't know," answers Stacey. "Ask Grace."

"Dad, I don't know anything!"

"Why was there a boy in here? Did someone invite him up here?"

"Certainly not!" I protest.

"Mr. Blume, may I call my parents?" asks Emily, wiping her eyes.

Dad removes his glasses and rubs his forehead. "It's awfully late, Emily," he says.

"I want to call them."

"Yes, yes. All right, Emily, let's go downstairs and perhaps we can straighten out what happened. I think everyone knows more than they're saying." Dad takes Emily by the shoulder and gently pushes her through the doorway. "Clean up that mess, Grace," he tells me without a backward glance.

_I_ have done nothing wrong.

And I don't know what Dad's talking about until Stacey mentions finding a broom. I look to where she's pointing at the floor near her bedside. The night table is overturned and surrounded by the broken glass of the lamp, as well as a smashed ceramic vase, the pieces nestled amongst the blooms of the purple tulips it once held. The lampshade lies nearby.

I tell Stacey we'll find a broom and ask Dawn to look in on my mother, even though I know she's still sleeping. She'll wake in the morning and remember nothing. I also suggest that Dawn put on some clothes.

Downstairs, we hear my father on the telephone with the Bernsteins. There's a broom in the kitchen. We have to dig for the dustpan.

"What really happened, Stacey?" I ask, though I'm still smarting from her earlier accusation. "Did Bryce do something to Emily?"

"No."

"Then why is she so upset?"

Stacey turns to look at me. "You have no idea how scary it was," she answers. She pauses. "You really didn't tell Bryce to come upstairs?"

"Please, Stacey! Do you know me at all?" I reply, although Stacey would be shocked to know all the sorts of things I've done.

"I'm sorry. I just…you can't imagine what it was like," she says and her voice catches. "I can't even explain it. It happened so fast. I was half-asleep. I don't even know if I heard what I think I heard. The bedroom door creaked open and then closed. I thought it was you or Dawn sneaking in to scare us. But I wasn't really conscious. Then Emily screamed and I rolled over and there was this dark figure standing over her, just staring down at her. My heart stopped for a moment. I thought I would die of fright. I thought he was going to kill us. I thought he was going to rape us and kill us. So, I jumped up and grabbed the lamp and just started swinging. Then you and Dawn came in. We didn't know it was Bryce until you turned on the light." Stacey takes a deep breath. "And I thought…"

"You thought what?"

Stacey's voice chokes again. "It happened so fast. But when I saw him standing there in the dark and I thought we were going to die, what crossed my mind is that…I always thought my diabetes would kill me, not some stranger in a beach house." Stacey starts to cry.

"I'm sorry, Stacey," I tell her and reach out and place my hands on her shoulders. I hold her at arms length. She steps closer to fill the gap and wraps her arms around my neck. She squeezes me briefly and steps back.

Stacey wipes the back of her hand across her eyes. "I'm fine. I'm fine," she assures herself. She pretends it's for me.

"I'm sorry," I say again. And I am sorry. I am sorry I didn't have time to think about her and Emily. I only had time to react. There was no space for thinking.

But I'm thinking now.

And there's a cold feeling settling in my stomach as I turn over Stacey's words. I imagine Bryce standing over Emily's bed, staring down at her, thinking Emily was me. Why was Bryce looking for me? Why was he watching for me at the window? What did he want? Stacey worried that…

I could throw up.

"I have to go," I tell Stacey and dash from the kitchen. I hurry up the stairs and down the hall to my parents' room. I slip inside and turn on the light. Dad's still downstairs with Emily. Mom's still asleep in the bed. I sit down beside her and watch her sleep. I hope I never get epilepsy. I've never asked anyone if I might. It may be something that is passed along. Like how Grandpa and Grandma Blume drank all the time, and now Dad does too. It's different and the same.

I wish Mom would wake and tell me what she was thinking when she chased after Bryce. But I know she won't remember.

I saw someone else have a seizure once. I was in sixth grade and on a school trip at a lodge in Vermont. We were in the rec room and this eighth grade girl had a seizure in a chair beside the fireplace. It didn't look like my mother's seizures and no one else knew what was happening. It was fast. Afterward, she got up and began wandering the room, confused and bumping into things. In a few minutes, she was normal and went off to the dining room for breakfast. I wish my mom had that kind of epilepsy.

She wouldn't have the seizures if she took her medication.

She makes everything so difficult.

Dawn and Stacey cleaned up the broken glass. Dawn's put on her nightshirt and a pair of boxer shorts. She's still pale and kind of sickly looking. She hasn't said much. I just now notice.

"Maybe I should call my mom, too," Stacey says to me. "I don't know if I'll sleep tonight. It might help to talk to her. Is your mom going to come out again? Do you think she would talk to my mom?"

"No, she's asleep. She hit her head."

"She may have a concussion."

"She doesn't have a concussion."

Stacey frowns. "Well…I think I want to call Mom. Your dad can talk to her, I guess," says Stacey. She hands me the broom and leaves the bedroom.

I lean the broom against the closet. "Why are you so quiet?" I ask Dawn.

She shrugs. "A lot to take in," she says. "I've never seen anyone have a seizure. Why did your mother do that?"

"Because she has epilepsy."

"I know, but why did she do it now? Was it because she was running? She was really mad. Is that why?"

"She doesn't take her medication," I admit. I've never said it aloud to anyone. Not even to Cokie or to Mari. "She takes it sometimes, but she skips a lot. She hasn't taken her pills all weekend. And then she ran after Bryce and got upset and it made her hyperventilate. Hyperventilating is her trigger. It makes her seize. I've seen it before," I say, thinking of that time at Bellair's when Mom lost me. "She won't remember it tomorrow."

"Your mother doesn't have a license, does she? She's not allowed to drive."

"She has a license. She chooses not to drive. She chooses not to do a lot of things. She doesn't swim either. She says epileptics drown," I tell Dawn. But she doesn't choose not to drink.

"You should have told me. We're supposed to be friends."

"It's no one else's business. It's private. Hardly anyone knows. None of my friends do, except Emily." I say. She and Mrs. Bernstein were in Bellair's that day. She never brings it up. "It's not important. When Mom takes her medication, she's okay. I'm sorry if it scared you. I know how it looks."

"It wasn't that bad," says Dawn, quickly.

She lies because she is my friend.

"I don't want people to talk about her," I confess. I let myself down. I am shaken and fit to burst. "Stacey told me what happened in the bedroom with Bryce. Did she tell you?"

Dawn nods once.

I comb back my hair with my fingers and rest a hand on my hip. "I don't understand why he came looking for me. Why would he break into the house and try to sneak into my bedroom? I think he's some kind of pervert. We should call the cops. What if he'd done something to me or Emily?"

"He's not a pervert."

"You don't know that. Who is he? We don't know."

Dawn opens her mouth. She closes it again. Her face has never regained its color. She watches me, then opens and closes her mouth again.

"Grace, can I tell you something?" she finally asks.

"What?'

Dawn presses her lips together and hesitates. "I…I…" she begins and fails. "I can't believe he thought my note was from you," she says.

"What are you talking about?"

"The note! Bryce said he came looking for you because of your note. I wrote the note, Grace, but it wasn't supposed to be from you. I didn't sign my name because I thought he would _know._ Why would he think it was from you? You treated him like trash!"

I stare at Dawn.

"And I didn't invite him into the house!" she cries. "I told him to meet me on the beach and that I'd come as soon as everyone was asleep. I was changing when Emily screamed. I swear, I didn't tell him to sneak inside the house. I only told him where to meet me, and that he didn't have to worry about my boyfriend. Abby told him I have a boyfriend."

"Emily told him that_ I_ have a boyfriend," I say, angrily. The night catches up with me. I start to feel again, all the things I pushed aside begin to boil to the surface. "You're the reason he broke into the house?" I demand.

"I didn't tell him to break in!"

"But you're why he thought he could. You don't even know him! What kind of a person breaks into a house and goes looking for a girl he just met? What if he'd done something to Emily and Stacey? What if he'd done something to me? He didn't come upstairs to talk! Dawn, you brought some pervert creep into the house! I can't believe you!"

"I didn't bring him in! Your parents probably forgot to lock the front door because they were – " Dawn stops herself.

"Because they were what? What?"

"Well, we all saw how much they drank at dinner. Your mom probably shouldn't be drinking like that if she's so sick. That's probably why she had the seizure."

"My mother isn't sick," I protest. "And what my parents do is none of your business. There's nothing wrong with them. And as you can see, my father is completely coherent! He isn't…" I can't even say it. I've never been so angry – not when we lost the semi-finals to Sheridan High because Mari's serve was off, not when my father missed my fourteenth birthday party because Fiona Fee wanted a ride to the airport, not when Mom ruined Thanksgiving by dumping the yams in Aunt Corinne's lap. And not even when my parents have ignored me when I am standing right there. Dawn should have known better. "This is all your fault," I tell her. "You've ruined our vacation. My mother wouldn't have had a seizure if not for you and Bryce. Emily and Stacey will probably never sleep again! The Bernsteins won't ever let Emily go anywhere now. I'll never see her. My mother didn't even want me to invite you this weekend. I've fought for you all summer and you're just stupid and selfish, Dawn!"

Dawn looks like she might cry. "I'm sorry! I made a mistake! Sometimes I do stupid things. Sometimes I just don't think. I liked Bryce. I didn't know he liked _you_. I feel terrible about Emily and Stacey, about everything. Don't you ever make mistakes?"

"Yes," I reply. I stare at Dawn, her blue eyes welling with tears. Crocodile tears. I stare at her and see her in a new light. Maybe I should have listened to Mary Anne. She's right. Stacey's right. We don't really know Dawn at all.


	43. Chapter 43

My father wakes me in the morning, gently shaking me awake. I roll over, wiping my eyes, staring up at him groggily. I didn't think I'd sleep. I must have drifted off sometime in the early morning hours. I can barely open my eyes.

"Time to get up, Grace. Fay wants to leave early," he tells me.

I sit up, rubbing my eyes, sleepily. "Mom's awake?" I ask. My mouth and throat are dry. My tongue feels thick as if coated in tar and honey.

"She's downstairs. Leave her alone for now," he replies and exits the bedroom, flicking on the light as he leaves.

We don't linger getting ready. I shower, dress, and pack in record time. I drag my luggage into the hall for my father to carry downstairs. Stacey and Emily are rattling around in their room and there's nothing but silence from Dawn's. I go downstairs to the kitchen without them. Dad's already cleared out the refrigerator, setting all our uneaten food on the counter. I grab the rest of the grapes and the last pineapple soda that I brought from home. I eat standing at the counter. My mother's out on the patio. I see her from the window, sitting in a wicker chair, wearing her white bucket hat pulled low on her head and her rose-tinted sunglasses. She cradles a coffee mug in her hands and stares out over the cliff. She doesn't see me.

We roll out of Fiona Fee's driveway at a quarter past eight. The entire street is asleep. We don't say goodbye to anyone. We're just gone.

Emily, Stacey, and I sit together in the very backseat, a wall of solidarity, while Dawn, alone, sulks in front of us. Her shoulders sag, but she doesn't turn around. Emily leans her head against my shoulder and I am resolute.

Mom says very little and there's so much I want to ask. I also want to ignore it and let it fade away. Caught between two places, that is me. Beside me, pressed against my shoulder, Emily sleeps.

Dad eases the minivan onto the ferry at Port Jefferson and Mom declines to leave the vehicle. Newly roused from her sleep, Emily insists on staying with her, curling into a ball on the long bench seat. She didn't sleep last night, Stacey tells me as we walk to the outside deck. Stacey knows because she didn't sleep either. There are dark crescents beneath her eyes that she didn't bother trying to cover with make-up. Stacey and I sit together on a bench while Dad and Dawn sit on the opposite side of the deck. Dad tips his panama hat over his eyes and speaks to Dawn, but she hangs her head and doesn't answer. I don't give her my attention and shift my focus to Stacey, who speaks lazily to me, sort of like she's hung over. Of all my friends, Stacey and I make the most sense.

We watch the Hamptons disappear.

Everything in Stoneybrook is exactly the same.

I lay on my bed paging through the new J. Crew catalogue while _Inside Entertainment_ plays in the background. We've been home for two hours. My mother, who never stops to breathe, retreated straight to her bedroom. She's sleeping, I guess. She's not talking, I know. Dad's downstairs with a gin and tonic and a cigar, talking on the phone with Alla. It's my old life. The one I didn't miss.

I wonder about Stacey, I wonder about Emily. I even wonder about Dawn. No one said anything when we dropped her off at her house, except my father, who walked her to the front door. Although, it didn't matter since no one was home. It was the same with Stacey. Mom and I stayed in the minivan when Dad took Emily into her parents' pharmacy. There was a lot of carrying on and theatrics. I could see Mrs. Bernstein waving her arms around. So much for ever seeing Emily again.

I wonder what I'll do for the rest of the summer.

For now, I go downstairs and take twenty dollars out of Mom's purse and order pizza. Inside the office, Dad's yakking on the phone with Alla still. He hasn't changed out of his vacation clothes and sits at the desk in his striped shirt and dumb hat, but he's all business, droning on and on about portable toilets and clean up crews.

I'm sitting in the kitchen eating my onion and green pepper pizza when Dad comes in, finally off the phone. "When did you get that?" he asks.

"Cary Retlin brought it fifteen minutes ago," I answer. "He probably spit on it." Good thing I didn't tip him.

"That's nice, Grace," Dad says, leaning inside the refrigerator. He takes out a can of coke. "What are your plans today?"

"We just got home, Dad," I reply. "I'm still recovering from my last plans. You can have some of my pizza."

Dad takes a seat at the table and lifts a slice from the box.

"What did Alla want?" I ask.

"Just filling me in on the meeting I missed this morning. There's a problem in our department. Not too serious, but it'll be a big headache when I go in tomorrow. Alla's trying to smooth everything over. Did you see Fay when you were upstairs?"

"No, she hasn't come out of the bedroom."

"Ah," says Dad, peeling a strand of green pepper from the cheese and dropping it onto a napkin. "Did you enjoy Westhampton Beach, Grace?"

I shrug, which doesn't seem very appreciative. Dad knows what happened. "I liked it until last night." I reach across the table and pluck Dad's pepper off the napkin.

"Yes, that was unfortunate," Dad says and clears his throat. "Everything will get back to normal now that we're home."

Dad would want to believe it's that easy.

It's not.

"Is Mom all right?" I ask.

"Yes, of course. She'll be back at work tomorrow, charging through the hallways and shouting at people. It'll be like nothing ever happened." Dad smiles, weakly.

"But she shouldn't have the seizures, not if she takes her medication."

"She forgets."

She only forgets the things that are not important to her. She never forgets her laptop, or her afternoon meeting, or Fiona Fee's next charity event. She remembers all those things. "I didn't think she had seizures anymore," I admit. "She hasn't had one in so long." I want to ask if it's my fault.

Dad clears his throat again and leaves the table, wadding his napkin into a ball.

My eyes follow him until I have to turn in my chair to watch him toss the napkin into the trashcan. "What?" I say. "What was that look?"

"Hm?" replies Dad, playing innocent. But I saw it, for a fleeting moment, saw his expression hint at something. I stare at him until his resolve collapses beneath my gaze. "Oh, well," he says in a way that's meant as nonchalant, "we don't tell you everything."

"There have been other ones? Recently?" I wrack my brain, trying to think of the last one I remember. The last one before last night. It may have been in this kitchen. A year ago? "How often does she have them?"

"More often than she should," Dad admits. "She forgets to take her pills, you know that. And she doesn't sleep enough and she worries too much about work. She has them mostly at night. You didn't need to know."

"It would have been nice to know."

"You don't need to worry about Fay. I'll keep closer track of her medication. We don't want a repeat of last night," Dad tells me. He offers another weak smile.

I slump back in my chair. No one tells me anything. I toss the remainder of my slice back into the box. Dad pretends not to notice I'm brooding. He goes about his business, flipping through the stack of new mail. I don't know what else to say to him.

Mom strolls into the kitchen wrapped in a silk bathrobe. "We shouldn't have given Marta all those days off," she says in way of greeting. "I have no clean clothes."

"You have a closet full of clothes, my dear," replies Dad.

Mom stops beside the table and cinches her belt tighter. "Aren't you tired of eating out?" she asks me.

"Were you planning to cook?"

Mom snorts and sits down. She picks up a slice of pizza and says, "May I eat this?"

"You paid for it."

"Are you taking money out of my purse again? I thought you stopped that in junior high," Mom says and bites into the pizza.

This I remember. She's always cranky afterward.

"Why are you sulking, Grace?" Mom asks me.

"I'm not sulking."

"Fay," Dad says from the counter, tearing open an envelope. "Do you want to go to a regatta?"

"No, I don't want to go to a regatta."

Dad tosses the invitation into the trashcan.

"How do you feel, Mom?"

"How do I feel? Well, I certainly felt much better before eating this," she remarks, dropping her pizza. "Where did you get that? Pizza Express? There's hardly any sauce and there's a bizarre aftertaste."

"I believe that's Cary Retlin's saliva, my dear," says Dad.

"What?" says Mom, closing the lid to the pizza box. "Are you finished, Grace?" she asks and when I nod, sweeps the box from the tabletop to the trashcan, where she tries cramming it inside. She brushes her hands together when she's done. "Maybe we should hire a cook," she suggests. "Does Marta cook?"

"No. I've asked her," I answer. "Nanny Catherine didn't cook either."

"Nanny Catherine didn't cook?" Mom says in surprise. "What in the world were we paying her for?"

"I think she was supposed to take care of Grace, my dear," replies Dad, setting aside a fat bill. He flips to a slimmer envelope and extends it to me. "This is for you, Grace."

I reach out for the envelope. It's decorated in bright-colored heart-shaped stickers. The address label has a picture of a dove standing in a flower wreath and the name "Shaughnessy" in capital letters above Aunt Corinne's address on Green House Drive. I begin to open the envelope and say, "It's from Aunt Corinne."

Mom plucks the envelope from my fingers. She rips it open.

"That's mine!" I protest.

"What does Corinne have to say to you?" Mom says, pulling out the card. There's a cat in a cheerleading outfit on the front of the card with yellow bubble letters spelling out _Gimme A B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y! _Mom snorts. "Your cousin Amber's turning eleven next week," Mom informs me, reading the invitation. "She's having a cheerleader party! There will be real live cheerleaders there!" Mom rolls her eyes and tosses the invitation onto the table. "Only Corinne would think of something so impossibly asinine. Corinne wanted to be a cheerleader in high school, but my father wouldn't permit it. Now she's living vicariously through a child. How pitiful."

I wanted to be a cheerleader in middle school. Or really, Cokie wanted us to be cheerleaders. When I told Mom about the tryouts, she laughed and said the boys can cheer for themselves and to go practice my backstroke. Cokie didn't make the squad, so it didn't matter anyway.

"Does Stoneybrook Academy even have a cheerleading squad?" wonders Mom.

"She's in club cheerleading or something," I say. "Are you forbidding me from attending the party?"

Mom chuckles. "If you want to waste your Saturday, then be my guest. You can buy her a Laker girl calendar."

Mom's so obnoxious after her epileptic episodes. I think the seizures do something especially weird to her brain.

I shrug and read the invitation for myself. What else will I do? Emily and Julie will be on their way to dull journalism camp. Stacey and Mary Anne will probably be slaving away at the Kid Center. Mari will be back. I slide the invitation inside its envelope. I stare down at the thin yellow paper and remember another envelope that's also yellow, but with age. It sticks out of Dawn's back pocket in my memory. I guess I'll never know what it held now.

"Did you take your pills?" I ask Mom. I can't help myself. The question falls out of my mouth.

Mom scowls and cinches her belt again. "Yes, Grace," she says, tightly.

"It was just a question," I tell her. What's wrong with worrying?

"I don't need to be nagged," Mom grouses, even though that's precisely what she needs. "You're not my mother."

The telephone breaks in with a sharp ring.

"Maybe that's your mother," says Dad, lightly.

"If it's anyone's mother, I'm not here," Mom tells Dad with the edge still in her voice. "I can't deal with Marian Bernstein yelling at me the way she did at you."

"She didn't really yell at me, just in my presence," says Dad, lifting the receiver from the wall. "Hello, this is Hal Blume…Yes, hello, Dawn…"

I shake my head vigorously and wave my arms at Dad while Mom demands, "Why did we get you a private phone line?"

Dad raises his eyebrows at me, but even so, says to Dawn, "No, I'm sorry. Grace ran to the supermarket…Yes, I'll tell her….Goodbye."

The nerve of Dawn, calling _me_!

"So, the silent treatment continues," comments Dad.

I cross my arms and slump down in my chair.

Mom glances from Dad to me. "Well! I'm certainly glad you came to your senses," she informs me. "I knew that if I left you alone, you'd figure her out for yourself. She was only going to get you into more trouble all summer long. Car accidents and sneaking boys into the house! I don't even want to _think_ about what could have happened to you or to anyone else. Teenage boys only want _one_ thing. You should have called the police, Hal!"

I was waiting for her to sound off on this.

"I think Dawn seems like a nice girl," says Dad.

"She's a bad influence," argues Mom. "All we need is for Grace to get arrested this summer. She won't get into college with a criminal record. She'll end up at a vocational school!"

"I'm right here."

"Grace could be worse things than a cosmetologist," Dad points out.

"I'm still right here."

"Not everything's a joke, Hal," Mom says, continuing to ignore me. As usual.

"I'm going to Gran's house," I say, standing up and grabbing my purse off the counter. "I hope you're both normal when I get back."

They don't stop me.

I need to be away from them.

When I pull into her driveway, Gran's in the front yard watering the flowerbeds. She smiles and waves. I haven't seen much of her since that day in the attic. Maybe things will be better now.

Gran sets down the garden hose and walks toward the Corvette, sinking her hands into the pockets of her white slacks. There's a kick in her step. She's in a good mood. "Welcome back," she says, cheerfully. "I didn't expect to see you today. When did you get in?"

"A few hours ago. We left early this morning. There was a change of plans."

Gran gives me a small knowing smile.

It doesn't sit well.

Her smile changes in an instant. She claps her hands together and says, "I'm delighted that you're back. Now that we finished _The Tenant Of Wildfell Hall_, we can begin your next book!"

I manage a wary smile. "Great," I lie.

"I suppose not today. You're likely tired," Gran says and leaves me to turn off the garden hose. When she returns, she adds, "Likely exhausted in spirit as well as of the sun. You look like you got some color. Let's go inside." Gran quickly climbs the front steps and holds the front door open for me.

I pause in the foyer, listening with interest. "Is that yipping Penelope?" I ask Gran.

"Yes. I locked her in the laundry room. She was vexing me," replies Gran, continuing on to the kitchen. "Would you like something to drink?"

"No thanks," I call after her. "I think that's kind of mean." I go to the laundry room and release Penelope, who promptly jumps on me and scratches my knees. I see Gran's point. I shove Penelope outside.

"Tell me about the Hamptons," Gran says when I finally enter the kitchen. She's at the counter mixing a pitcher of lemonade. "A lot of people at the club rent houses out there during the summertime. Is it actually that impressive or just overhyped?"

I lean back against the counter. "Well, it's not Fiji or Bermuda or even the Florida Keys. I liked it though," I tell Gran. I did like it. It's not the Hampton's fault what happened. "You would like it. It wasn't too noisy or crowded, I think. I know how you value the quiet."

"I don't much care for the beach."

"When was the last time you even went to the beach?"

"I'm not sure. I think Eisenhower was still in office."

I hope that's a joke. Sometimes I can't tell.

I almost ask when the last time was that she traveled farther than Greenvale. I stop myself, pausing to really wonder about it. I watch Gran measure another scoop of powdered lemonade and gently turn her wrist to pour the powder into the pitcher. It occurs to me that I don't recall Gran taking a trip anywhere my entire life.

"So, what did you and your friends do in the Hamptons?" Gran breaks into my thoughts.

"We went to the beach and swam in Fiona Fee's pool. Fiona Fee's beach house is amazing. It's like a fortress with an ocean view."

"Your mother always did manage to know the right people," comments Gran.

I let it pass. "We shopped, of course. I bought this watch." I hold out my hand to show Gran the silver and purple leather watch. "We went sailing, too."

"It sounds lovely, Grace."

I watch Gran remove a cutting board from beneath the sink. She picks up a knife and slices off the ends of a lemon. "I lost the garnet ring. The ring you gave Mom. I think I lost it on the beach," I confess. "Mom was upset."

"Over that silly old thing? She can buy you a new one."

"I suppose so," I say. If only I could make Gran see. "There was another thing, too. Mom had a seizure while we were in Westhampton Beach. Did you know she still has those?"

"No," Gran responds, slicing the lemon in half. She cuts it into slivers.

"She doesn't take her medication."

"That sounds just like Fay. She wouldn't take her medicine when she was a girl either. Practically had to shove the pills down her throat. It's easier to give pills to Penelope."

"Why is she like that?"

"How should I know?"

"Didn't you ever ask her?"

"No, I didn't," replies Gran, scooping the lemon slices into her hands and dropping them into the lemonade pitcher. "Maybe she likes the attention. She's brain damaged from the epilepsy. She's not right in the head."

"Mom is not brain damaged," I say, testily.

"Why must we talk about Fay?"

"Why does Mom have epilepsy?" I ask, ignoring her question.

"I don't know! I'm not a neurologist, Grace. She has a brain defect, I suppose. She was twelve or thirteen when she was diagnosed and that was a long time ago. Doctors didn't know that much about epilepsy then, not like they do today. The only reason we even found out she had epilepsy is because she kept having seizures during the night and falling out of bed. We'd find her on the floor in the morning. I thought she was faking for the longest time."

I am not surprised.

"Ian made me take her to specialists all over New England, but no one knew anything more than the doctors in Stamford. Such a waste of time." Gran turns from me, carrying the lemonade pitcher to the refrigerator. "The lemonade must chill, but you may help yourself whenever you like, Grace."

I straighten, thinking. "Gran…" I start. "Did you take her to a specialist in Boston?"

Gran closes the refrigerator door and faces me again. "Yes, several times. There was a specialist at the Children's Hospital who came recommended by someone at our church. It was quite annoying because we had to take the train into Boston and Corinne was only a baby. Then there was Margolo, who was the most rambunctious, fidgety child. It was an ordeal. Elsa usually came, though, which helped."

"Elsa is your old housekeeper?"

"Yes. She worked for us for nearly thirty years."

I am thinking.

"Where is she now?"

"Elsa? Stoneybrook Manor. Her son and his wife put her there several years ago. Awful. No one is ever sticking me in a nursing home. I am going to live in this house until the day I die. If I could be, I'd be buried in the backyard."

"Why?"

"Because it's mine."

"And it's where you were the happiest," I prod, even though I know it can't possibly be true. I want her to say something real.

"No."

"Gran, where _were_ you the happiest?"

Gran brushes her carrot-colored hair over her shoulder and stares at me. She has that look again, the unreadable one, a slackness reaching from her mouth to her eyes. She slips her hands back into her pockets and I wonder if she's considering or simply ignoring. "Miss Kingston's," she finally answers.

"That was sixty years ago, Gran," I point out.

"So?" Gran says and turns her back on me. She takes a covered plate from the counter and peels back the aluminum foil. "Would you like a cookie? Brigitta and her grandsons made them. Not here, obviously. I don't need any little children running around and breaking my things."

I move to the table where Gran sets the plate and take a seat and a cookie. It's molasses and very soft. Gran sits down across from me and also takes a cookie.

"I wanted to send Fay and Margolo to Miss Kingston's," Gran says, so suddenly I am startled and almost drop the cookie. Since when does Gran offer anything freely? "But Ian wouldn't allow it," she continues. "It would have been good for them. We sent Corinne away though. When she was eleven, we sent her to a school In Fairfield. It's where she met Cullen, and then she insisted on leaving Smith after only two years to marry him. I suppose she knew best," Gran says and sighs. "Fay is the only one to actually graduate from Smith. My mother, Corinne, and I left to marry and then Margolo…" Gran waves her hand. She passes by Aunt Margolo so easily. "Have you begun working on your application for Smith, Grace? I will help you with the essay."

"I'm not going to Smith."

"Nonsense. Of course you are. We all go to Smith. Someday, when you have a daughter, she will go to Smith, too."

"Mom says I don't even have to apply. I can go wherever I like," I reply.

"Fay spoils you," says Gran. "She loved Smith. Why would she discourage you from applying?"

I almost point out that Aunt Margolo must not have loved it very much since she killed herself before finishing her second year. I don't think Gran would care.

"It's my choice."

"Hm," murmurs Gran, but she let's the subject drop.

"Are you going to Amber's birthday party?"

"No. I don't need to be anywhere near forty screaming pre-adolescent girls. I'll send her a check."

Gran never attended my birthday parties either, not even my Sweet Sixteen at the Stamford Hyatt last year. She always mailed me checks, too.

I stay a couple of hours at Gran's house. We watch _Oprah_ and then water the flowers in the backyard. I leave before I wear out my welcome. I am more sensitive to Gran's ever-shifting moods and on the alert for their turn. I walk on eggshells, sometimes, but I will not be thrown down another flight of stairs. I will avoid that scene.

The minivan is missing from the garage when I return home. I hope it is gone for good and that the next time I catch sight of it, it will be driven by skanky Dorianne Wallingford and not my father. In the kitchen, I drop my purse on the counter and grab a soda from the refrigerator, then move into the living room, wondering whether it is safe to seek out my mother. I have no chance to weigh that wonder because Mom's hidden in plain sight, behind her desk in the office, where I should have known I'd find her. She's out of her bathrobe and back in her clothes and wearing her purple-framed glasses. A good sign.

"I'm home," I announce, leaning into the office.

"Hello, Grace," Mom answers without looking away from her computer.

"I see the mini-monstrosity is gone."

"What? Oh, yes. Hal took it to the car wash and then over to Jim and Dot's. He's picking up Chinese food afterward. There's no food in this house," Mom tells me, fingers clicking away on the keyboard. "I already left a Post-It on the refrigerator for Marta. I started a shopping list, too, so be certain to add anything you need."

It's exactly like before. Only a few hours pass and already we fall into the standard routine. Same old, same old.

"All right, Mom," I reply, aware that she's likely not listening. Not really.

A few moments pass with Mom's attention frozen to the computer screen. She doesn't see me and somehow, she knows that I am there. "Have you been at your grandmother's all this time?" she asks me.

"I've only been gone a couple hours," I point out. "And yes." I wait for Mom to say something else, but she's shifted her focus to an open binder on the desk. She writes furiously in it. "Gran wants to be buried in her backyard," I tell Mom.

"Alive?"

"No. When she's dead."

"She'll never die," Mom says, flatly. "Why must she say such bizarre things to you? She's insane."

Maybe.

I rest against the doorframe, so it supports me, holds me up. "You look a lot better," I remark.

Mom stops writing. Her pen hovers above the page, her gaze held on the page. "Thank you," she says and continues writing.

And that's all I am allowed to say about that.

I return to the kitchen for Marta's shopping list. Mom's written three items on the list: Lean Cuisines, coke, and limes. That's what my mother calls a shopping list. Below her three items, Dad wrote in his all-capital print: shaving cream. I add practical items to the list, things real people really eat.

Late in the night after my parents have gone to bed, I sit in my bedroom at my desk. The lamp burns hot beside me, casting its light over the fresh page in my binder. I stare at the blank page a long while, considering where to begin. Where is the beginning? Finally, I pick up a pen and near the top of the page write my grandmother's name. I draw a circle around it. Beside her, I write my grandfather's name. I link them together. Then from them, I make three straight lines leading to the names of Mom, Aunt Margolo, and Aunt Corinne. I encircle them, too. And then I stare at my spider web diagram. What does it say?

I draw another line from Gran and write _Elsa the housekeeper. _I think she is a clue. Then above Gran, I write _Margaret Macintosh_ and link them. I draw a line beneath Mom that leads to _epilepsy,_ which leads to _Boston._ There are two lines from Aunt Margolo. First I write _suicide_ and then I write _Sharon Porter. _I circle Sharon Porter twice. I make her lines deep and dark.

I sit back and study the diagram. Pieces of the puzzle gathered, staring up at me. There are mysteries here. They may be the same, they may be different. The answers wait for me. There are two things I do know. I must get that letter from Dawn and I must find Elsa the housekeeper. I'm ready.


	44. Chapter 44

I lay awake in the early morning hours, listening for my mother. Three-thirty comes and goes and my parents' bedroom door does not open. There are no footfalls in the hallway or on the stairs, no slamming of the front door. I lay there, in bed, in my jogging clothes and socks, waiting but not expecting. Deep down, I knew. It's like with driving. She won't run anymore either.

I fall back asleep eventually and when I wake again, it's seven o' clock and my parents are gone, commuting to their other lives. I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. I've barely slept in two nights. It's no use now. I'm done.

I roll out of bed and pull my hair into a ponytail. I drop to the floor for my one hundred sit-ups and one hundred push-ups, then slip on my running shoes and take off out the front door. It's oddly cool for a July morning. It's refreshingly quiet, too, just like on my three a.m. runs. Feet pounding against the pavement, I circle the neighborhood four times, breathing in and out, and working hard not to think.

The day stretches before me and behind it, the entire summer.

I eat breakfast alone at the kitchen table and Marta comes in while I'm finishing my cereal. She grumbles a hello and promptly starts ignoring me. I toss my bowl in the sink and get out of her way. I retreat to the backyard where I begin my morning laps. I lose myself in the water. I need to get serious about swimming again. I've been lax. I spin in the water and start my backstroke. My mind is alternately blank and racing. My thoughts are more fluid in the water.

I remain in the pool until lunchtime. Marta's at the supermarket when I return to the kitchen. I grab the last yogurt and retreat to my bedroom, where I sit at my desk, wrapped in my beach towel, studying the spider web diagram. I'm missing something.

And I'm bored.

Tossing the empty yogurt carton into the trashcan, I leave my desk for the bed. I sit beside the telephone, drumming my fingers on the night table. I won't call Dawn. I'll get my letter some other way. I'll make Mary Anne steal it. Mary Anne. She and Julie will be back today. What to do, what to do. Stacey's still at the university. Emily. I don't know if I have the nerve.

I thought I had more friends. I always thought I was so popular.

The phone rings as my fingers reach for it.

Without thinking, I answer. "Hello?" I say, too eager.

"Hello, Grace?" replies Dawn's voice.

The nerve.

I slam the receiver down.

Immediately, the phone rings again. I pick it up, this time thinking clearly. "I want my letter back!" I bark. Then I slam the receiver down again.

Why would I talk to her? She's everything everyone ever said.

Someone should have told Dawn about me. I am not forgiving. Betray me once, goodbye.

Dawn's leaving at the end of the summer anyway. She's gone one way or another. She might as well be gone now.

I unplug the phone.

Downstairs, I telephone Emily from the office. It takes five rings before she answers.

"Hey, it's Grace."

"Hi."

I wait a beat.

"How are you?"

"Fine. I'm fine," Emily replies.

I don't know what else to say. I'm not good at this. "What a jackass that Bryce turned out to be," I blurt out. When Emily doesn't answer right away, I rush to cover myself. "I'm sorry if that's insensitive, but are we really surprised? I saw it coming a mile away."

"Well, I didn't! I thought he was another cute, but dim dork that Dawn decided to adopt, kind of like Logan Bruno. Gee, Grace, if you thought he was a wannabe rapist, you could have told me!"

"I thought he was a creep, not a wannabe rapist. And why are you yelling at me?"

"I'm not," Emily answers, lowering her voice. For a moment. "It's all just very upsetting!"

"I know, I know. I'm sorry."

Emily takes a breath. "It's not your fault. Frankly, I'm a little embarrassed."

I sit down on Mom's desk and prop my feet on her chair. "Why?" I ask Emily. I pick up Mom's rolodex and begin spinning it. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"I'm embarrassed by my behavior. I really lost it, Grace. I don't even remember most of what happened. It's like amnesia. It's not a good feeling."

"Are your parents mad? Are we never going to see you again?"

"I think their relief that I'm not murdered in the Hamptons has overcome their anger. They're less than pleased that I went sailing with a strange boy and basically lied to your mother about it. Mom called Uncle Malcolm and yelled at him. I hope he's not mad at me. I wouldn't worry about my parents. I blamed the whole thing on the Stevenson twins."

I drop the rolodex and actually laugh. "You did not!" I exclaim.

"I did! I like Anna a lot, but I'll throw them under the bus before Dawn."

"Really? Why? Dawn totally sold us out."

"Oh, please, Grace! Are you going to be like that? You sound just like Stacey. I talked to Stacey and she didn't say anything about Dawn telling Bryce to come upstairs and stare at me while I sleep. Is that what happened?'

"No."

"Then I don't hold a grudge. We Jews are a very forgiving people. Besides, Dawn's our friend. And more importantly, Mary Anne's our friend. When Mary Anne and Dawn get over this dumbness, we'll all have to get along."

I snort into the receiver. This dumbness will never be over. Dawn is a divisive person and that's that.

"I don't want to talk about Dawn anymore," I tell Emily. I study my French manicured nails. "One of my nails is chipping. Do you want to go down to Gloriana's with me, so I can get it fixed?"

"Sorry, I can't. Technically, I'm not allowed to leave the house until Saturday. Mr. Stern's driving Julie and I up north to Journalism camp."

I roll my eyes. "Well, is Julie home yet?"

"No. I've been watching the Sterns' house. Mrs. Stern has my dad's car, so she'll probably be over straight away. Should I have Julie call you?"

"No," I reply. I don't need to hear Julie's commentary on the Hamptons fresh off Emily's retelling. "I'll talk to you later, Emily. Bye."

Emily and I hang up.

I drum my fingers on the desk, thinking. My gaze falls to Mom's rolodex laying on its side next to the keyboard. I pick it up again and set it on my knees. I begin flipping through the entries. I go through half the alphabet until I reach the M's and find someone named Elsa. Elsa Matheson. Or Matheson, Elsa as Mom's listed her. I remove the card. It's penned in Mom's neatest handwriting and lists an Elsa Matheson living on Birch Street. Or lived once, at least. Mom's drawn a single black line through the address and underneath has written: Stoneybrook Manor off Essex. Bingo.

It's so easy.

I replace the card and close the rolodex. I file the name in my head. Matheson. Matheson. I fold my arms over my knees and simply sit, wondering what to do next.

* * *

I wonder for two days, and am wondering on Friday while on my morning run. It's part of my new routine. Running, swimming, and playing tennis. This is my life now. There are worse things.

When I ran with my mother, I spent all my time chasing her, but now that I run alone, all my thoughts are for myself. I don't worry about my mother. I listen to my sneakers on the pavement and to my steady breath and to the pumping of my heart in my chest. I turn over everything in my mind, picturing my spider web diagram, trying to fill in the blanks and connect the dots. My thoughts are clearer when I run, like when I'm in the water. Only I exist.

I round Elm Street and think I spy Julie coming toward me on the opposite side of the street. Instead it's Rachel Stern, looking deceptively like Julie in a ponytail and velour jogging suit. She's power walking down Elm, arms pumping furiously with weights strapped to her wrists and ankles. She doesn't look my way. I keep running.

I've been in near seclusion for two days, but after my morning swim, I dress and drive downtown to meet my friends at Argo's. Until last night, I hadn't heard from Stacey or Mary Anne, or even Emily. Julie's left no less than eight messages on my answering machine, two of which involved singing and one that, unfortunately, mainly consisted of rap.

"I'm not late, am I?" I ask, sliding into our booth.

Stacey and Mary Anne move over for me. "Don't worry about it," says Stacey. "We just got here."

"We've been here for twenty minutes!" interjects Emily.

"Didn't you notice my sculpture?" asks Julie, gesturing to a stack of sugar packets and single-serving jams. She flings a sugar packet straight into my forehead. "You've been ignoring my calls!"

I throw the packet back at her. "I've been busy," I reply. "I'm in training."

Julie rolls her eyes dramatically.

Emily shoots her arm into the air and calls, "Excuse me! We're ready!" to the waitress.

"Emily!" hisses Stacey, disapprovingly.

"I just got here!" I protest, opening a menu.

Emily snatches it from my hands. "A patty melt with fries and a pineapple soda. You order the same thing every time!"

I am pleased and dismayed to see Emily's back to her usual bossy self.

Just to prove her wrong, I order a grilled chicken sandwich and a lemonade.

Emily points her straw at me. "Don't think that escaped my notice," she tells me.

"What?" I reply, pouring half a packet of sugar into my lemonade. "You certainly are frisky for someone just off house arrest."

Emily snorts at me, then turns her direction to Mary Anne. "So, what's camping like? Was it dirty and buggy? I don't believe Julie's description of the campground or the activities therein. Did the Sterns make you sing?"

"No, I didn't have to sing. Although there was a lot of singing by other people. It was fun and I appreciate the Sterns letting me tag along."

Across the table, Julie makes a face that Mary Anne misses.

Mary Anne holds out her wrist. "Julie made me this friendship bracelet when we were finally allowed back in the rec hall," continues Mary Anne. "Where's your bracelet, Julie?"

"Paul stole it."

I take Mary Anne's wrist and take a closer look at the bracelet. "Juliebean! You're getting so sentimental in your old age!" I chuckle.

Julie makes another face.

Emily slugs Julie in the shoulder. "Where's my friendship bracelet?" she demands.

"What is this, the People Against Julie Day?" snaps Julie, rubbing her shoulder.

"Oooh, Miss Crankypants," says Stacey.

"Julie's nervous about Journalism camp," I tell them. "She's afraid some other geek is going to steal her protractor," I laugh.

"It's Journalism camp, not Geometry camp," remarks Emily.

"What do you think we _do_ in Journalism class, Grace?" asks Stacey.

I shrug. I don't know and I don't care.

The waitress comes with our food and we dig in with gusto. The grilled chicken is dry. I start to send it back, but that tends to freak out Mary Anne. It's not worth it. I spread on extra mayonnaise and take dainty bites while glancing around Argo's, checking out who's here with whom. It's the usual summer crowd. The Shillaber twins are in a back booth with a pair of boy twins I don't recognize. Lauren Hoffman and Robert Brewster are sitting behind them, sharing a milkshake with two straws. Most of the Stoneybrook High cheerleading squad is present, too, split into its usual two factions. At one end of the restaurant, Dorianne Wallingford's crammed into a large booth with the JV squad, and on the opposite end, Darcy Redmond holds court with the varsity cheerleaders whilst shunning Dorianne. I think it's a bit hypocritical since it was probably Darcy Redmond's mother who murdered Dorianne's baby.

"When do you guys leave tomorrow?" Mary Anne asks Emily and Julie. "Should we come and see you off?"

"Dad says we're leaving at six in the a.m.," answers Julie, licking ketchup off her knife and displaying her good breeding. "It's a three hour drive and we don't want to miss early check-in and all the best group members that come with it."

"Last summer we missed early check-in and ended up in a group with these really weird kids from Arkansas. It was a disaster," explains Emily.

"We wrote our feature story on their dad's dairy farm."

"Fascinating. So, what's everyone else doing this weekend?" I ask, leaning over to look at Stacey.

"Kid Center," says Stacey, just as Mary Anne says, "Kid Center." They laugh hysterically and hook pinkies. "Jinx by me a coke!" they say together.

I try not to regurgitate my lunch in disgust. I snap a few fries in half and pitch them into a pool of ketchup. "I have no plans yet," I announce. "My parents are working through the weekend to make up for the days they missed earlier this week. I think I'll play a lot of tennis."

Next to me, Mary Anne grunts.

"What's that?" I ask her.

"That's my comment on your weekend."

"Just because you don't like tennis – "

"On _last_ weekend," corrects Mary Anne.

"Can we not talk about that? I'm still eating," says Emily.

"I'm sorry, Emily," apologizes Mary Anne. "I didn't mean to be insensitive." She takes a bite of her pickle spear, chews quickly, and swallows. I know she isn't done. "I just wanted to say," continues Mary Anne, "that I told you so."

"Goodness, gracious, Mary Anne!" I cry. "Is that necessary?"

There's a peal of high-pitched laughter and across the way, Lauren Hoffman knocks over her water glass and screeches, "Did you just say, 'goodness, gracious'?"

I shoot her a nasty look. "Shut up, Lauren," I snap and turn back to my friends. "Did you all know she was eavesdropping?" I ask them.

"I think that's a comment on Robert's conversational skills," says Emily.

"She's a bitch," I say and tip back my head to drain the rest of my glass.

"Shhh…" Stacey shushes me.

I roll my eyes.

"It's just that…" Mary Anne says, still beating the horse. "I expected something like this to happen. It's not a shock. But good did come of it. When I left the house, Dawn was on the phone trying to convince her California friends to put her up for the rest of the summer. She'll be gone soon."

I turn to Mary Anne. "Dawn's leaving?" I ask.

"We can only hope."

I return to snapping my fries in half. "Good," I say. "Dawn's a jerk."

"Totally," agrees Stacey.

"Am I the only one not anti-Dawn?" Emily asks us.

"Dawn – " begins Mary Anne.

"Enough!" exclaims Julie, dropping the remainder of her hamburger. "I am so sick of hearing about Dawn. She's not that interesting! God!" Julie looks around the table at us, eyes landing on Mary Anne, who's screwing up her face, ready to cry. "All right. I'm done," Julie informs us, standing up in the booth. "See you all next week." She climbs over the back of the booth, despite the manager shouting at her. She strides out of Argo's without a backward glance.

"I'm not finished eating!" Emily yells after her.

"What was that?" I ask the table. No one answers and Mary Anne starts to cry. I throw down my napkin. "I'll be back," I inform my friends and slide out of the booth. I walk out of Argo's and spy Julie two storefronts down, unchaining her bicycle from a bike rack. "You're a great big anger ball," I tell Julie, strolling up to her.

"I'm not angry, I'm annoyed," replies Julie. "Remember when we used to talk about things that didn't come from California? I spent three days in the woods with Mary Anne, three days of yak yak yak about Dawn. I've reached my Dawn threshold. It's boring. See you in a week." Julie hops on her bicycle and pedals away. I stand on the corner and watch her go.

* * *

  
Am I like Mary Anne?

It's evening and I'm home alone, drinking a pineapple soda and flipping through Mom's old photo albums in search of clues. Mom has two thin albums that predate her college years. The first is full of blurred black and white photos of random distant relatives I've never even heard mentioned. I bet Mom doesn't know she has this. The second album I am familiar with. I used to look through it often as a child. It's a scattering of equally random photos starting with Mom's first baby picture. The album jumps straight from Mom's baby pictures to Aunt Margolo's five years later. No one took pictures with any frequency in the McCracken family. It's not much different from the Blume family.

A few pictures of Mom and Aunt Margolo at Christmas, a single photo of Mom's ninth birthday, and then Aunt Corinne appears as a baby. Aunt Margolo, age six, holds an out of focus baby Corinne on the living room couch while Mom, age eleven, stands behind them, glaring at the camera. It had already begun. The album doesn't tell me much. I memorized these photos long ago. Gran and Grandfather pop up every so often. In one photo, taken on Easter Sunday, Gran has a long gray bruise on her right arm. I never noticed. It's all so blurred, I only see what I'm looking for.

Near the end of the album are the photos of Mom and her first car, the baby blue 1960 Impala convertible. It's January and the front yard of the house on Bertrand Drive is covered in snow. Mom stands next to her new car in an A-line skirt and high-necked blouse. She isn't smiling over her new car, standing between an unsmiling younger Gran in a dress with a full skirt and white gloves and poufy Jackie Kennedy hair, and Grandfather, a cigarette in the hand of the arm draped over Mom's shoulders. Below it, there's a photo taken on the same day of Aunt Margolo, eleven years old and all gangly arms and legs, holding a hula hoop around her middle and beside her is a chunky, curly-haired blonde with a hula hoop. She looks nothing like Dawn, but I would recognize her even if she were not clearly identified as Sharon Porter. The next photos are also of Mom with her new car, but she's laughing gaily in both. In one, she's sandwiched not between her unhappy parents, but between her beaming best friends, Sue Sanderson and Taffy Rheardon. In the second photo, her boyfriend, Russ Black, has his arms wrapped around her, lifting her off her feet. She's shrieking with laughter.

It's a different Mom than I'm used to.

The photo album ends with a formal photo from Taffy Rheardon's wedding right after high school graduation. It's of the wedding party and Mom's next to her friend Taffy, wearing a hideous flowing peach gown with her hair pinned into a coronet. The wedding colors appear to be peach and beige. It's ghastly.

I shut the album having learned nothing new or of interest. I also remember from my childhood, that there are no other family photos in Mom's other few sparse albums. Gran and Grandfather and Aunt Margolo disappear just as Taffy Rheardon and Sue Sanderson do. The family photos do not begin again until my father appears during law school and I come in much later. I got a half-completed baby book.

I shove the albums back onto a bookshelf. Upstairs, I take out my spider web diagram, but can't think of anything to add. Are Sue and Taffy important? Is Russ Black? I don't think so. They could be fooling me though. I put away the diagram.

Throwing myself onto the bed, I plug my phone back in and dial Julie's number. I waste five minutes of my life going around nonsensically with Paul until Mrs. Stern catches on and takes the phone away. I wait for Julie to come on the line.

"I need you to ask Rachel something," I inform her.

"She's right here. You can ask her yourself."

"I don't want to talk to Rachel," I reply. "Ask her if she knows someone at Stoneybrook Manor named Elsa Matheson."

Julie sighs. "Just a minute." She shouts the question at Rachel. Rachel's answer is inaudible to me. Julie returns to the line and says, "She can't violate patient confidentiality."

"Oh, puh-lease! She cleans bedpans! Ask her again."

"Just a minute," says Julie and I wait. "Yes, she knows her."

"Can she have visitors?"

"Why do you want to visit some old lady? I didn't know you like old people. I think they're creepy."

"Just ask, Julie."

"Yeah, okay…Rachel says you can visit, but the old lady's demented…oh, excuse me, has dementia. Rachel's not supposed to tell you that."

"Tell Rachel I'll keep her secret," I reply with an eye roll. "Are you still annoyed?"

"Huh? Oh. I forgot. No. Hey, do you think I could fit my fist in my mouth? If my fist got stuck, how would I get it out?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Never mind. You know that bracelet Mary Anne had on? She made me swap bracelets with her. I made mine for my grandma."

"Yeah, I'm sure your grandma wanted a bracelet made out of string."

"She might."

"So, Julie," I say, drawing up my feet to rest on the edge of the night table. "Do you think Dawn's bad?"

"I think Dawn's just horny. Hey, Paul wants to talk to you. I'm putting him on."

"Oh, really?" I reply and promptly hang up.

Julie understands. I swing my legs off the bed and peel off my clothes. I'll go to Stoneybrook Manor next week. Monday. Monday is good. I step into my swimsuit. What else will I do on Monday? Run, swim, play tennis. What else will I do every other day? Run, swim, play tennis. I go outside to the swimming pool, flipping on the patio lights. I sit at the pool edge, dangling my legs in the water. My legs cast a shadow over the bottom of the pool. It's the shadow of my life.


	45. Chapter 45

"I don't know why we don't have a tennis court," I remark, coming into the kitchen in my new lime-colored tennis dress after Dad's told me to stop hitting tennis balls against the house.

"The backyard isn't big enough for a tennis court," Mom replies, bent over a pile of bills at the kitchen table. "We can rejoin the Stoneybrook Tennis Club any time. I'll write a check right now."

"Gross, Mom. A public tennis court?"

"It's not as if I suggested you play on the courts at Brenner Field. We have to _pay_."

I drop my racket on the table. "I guess I'll play at Gran's later. Mari comes home today. I don't want to be rusty."

"Where's Mari been?"

"Culinary camp. I told you, Mom."

"Culinary camp?" Mom says in disgust. "There's such a thing as culinary camp? What a waste of money. In these modern times, there's no need for cooking. That's what microwaves and Lean Cuisines are for."

"You're a real Susie homemaker, Mom."

"Susie homemaker couldn't afford to pay this Visa bill," Mom tells me, adjusting her glasses to better read the mile long bill. "What have you been buying, Grace? Oh, never mind, this is Hal's. How many Armani suits does he need? They all look the same." Mom tosses the bill aside and begins writing the check. "Can you take your racket off the table? It's on the Nordstrom's bill."

I knock the racket to the floor. It clatters loudly on the tile. "I need a new racket. That one sucks. It's throwing off my game."

"You're a real afternoon jewel."

I plop down into a chair across from Mom. "Can I ask you a question?"

Mom pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "I don't know, can you take these to the post office later?"

"Yes," I reply. "So, I was wondering, Mom…Mom? Can you look at me?"

Mom doesn't look up. "Why?"

"I'd like to know I have your attention. Can I have two minutes?"

Mom sighs and puts down her pen and closes her checkbook. "All right, Grace. What is it?"

"Your best friends in high school were Sue and Taffy, right?"

"Yes, why?"

"I was wondering why you stopped being friends with them. Did you have a fight with them? Did they do something awful?"

"No. They didn't do anything, awful or otherwise. We simply…went in different directions after high school. Why are you suddenly interested in Sue and Taffy?"

I shrug. "I'm not. So, they didn't betray you or anything?"

Mom sits back and scrunches her face. "No, certainly not. Did your grandmother say something about Sue and Taffy? She never liked them. They made too much noise." Mom rolls her eyes.

"Is there something to say about them?" I ask, wondering if I discounted Sue and Taffy too quickly. Maybe they belong on the diagram after all.

"You're confusing me, Grace. Of course there's nothing to say about them, nothing bad or shocking at least. They were my best friends over thirty years ago. Oh, my God, has it been that long? I am so damn old. But Sue, Taffy, and I, we just grew apart. Taffy married the minute after graduation and then Sue and I went to different colleges and…I didn't come home very often. By the time we were twenty-five, Sue and I had finished law school and Taffy was divorced with four kids. It was very sad."

My mouth drops open. "She's divorced? But she writes – "

"All those letters to the editor about single mothers and the fabric of society? I know. What's-his-face Shea is her second husband. I think Taffy's gone a bit cuckoo in her old age. I heard she's on anti-depressants. So…Taffy's brain is taffy." Mom chuckles. "But she was a great girl in high school."

I wonder if this is how I'll talk about my friends in thirty years. Will I sit around a table with my daughter laughing about Julie's third divorce and Mary Anne's anti-depressants? Will anyone ever marry Julie?

"But why didn't you go to the same college as Sue?" I ask. If Cokie and I were still best friends, I know we'd be plotting our college years together. If Cokie could get into college.

Mom shrugs. "Sue's parents couldn't afford Smith. Besides, she wanted a coed school. So, she went to UConn." Mom shrugs again. "Why are you interested?"

"No reason."

Mom cocks her head to the side. She regards me a moment. "I think I know," she says. "You are finally thinking about college. I knew if we didn't pressure you, you would eventually come around. You're thinking about college and you're afraid that you'll lose touch with all yours friends. Grace, that's life. You can't follow your friends just because they're your friends. College is a new beginning. The friends you make in college are the friends you have for life. I still exchange Christmas cards with my friends from Smith and Yale…when I remember to send out Christmas cards. Now Stacey and Emily and Mary Anne and Julie are lovely girls and you will always look back fondly on their friendships. But you can't follow them for life."

My mother has completely misunderstood my intent. And yet, she has somehow spoken candidly. Without coercion. I actually have her attention.

I almost cannot speak.

"Why did you move back to Stoneybrook then?" I ask, perplexed, by her candor and her motives.

"What a question," Mom says, appearing as perplexed as I. "Because Manhattan is no place to raise a child. Stoneybrook is a wonderful town. I was never happy in my parents' house, but I loved Stoneybrook. And I loved Stoneybrook High. Sue and Taffy are a very important part of my past. We are no longer friends, but that doesn't lessen their importance." Mom raises her shoulders. "You will understand someday."

Those aren't the answers I was looking for, but I nod anyway. "Okay," I say.

Mom smiles. "Okay," she repeats. "Now, where are you thinking for college? I won't make you go to Smith, like your grandmother made me. I adored Smith, but it isn't for you. How about Yale? I detested law school, but Yale is an excellent university. Your father and I kept all the cards those coaches gave us at the state swimming finals. They're somewhere."

"My grades aren't that fantastic."

"Grace, if you applied yourself…" Mom says and I tune her out.

Dad comes in with today's mail and adds it to Mom's pile. "I talked to Michelle Hill," Dad informs Mom. The Hills are our next door neighbors. "She and Harry are meeting Marc and Ginny for drinks at the Strathmore tonight. She invited us to join them."

"I don't have anything to say to Marc and Ginny," Mom replies. Marc and Ginny are Cokie's parents.

"You once had plenty to say to them, my dear."

"That was before Ginny gained fifty pounds and began wearing sweatpants in public. We have nothing in common anymore."

"Nevertheless," says Dad, raising his hands. "They were our closest friends. I'd like to see them."

Mom sighs and gathers her unpaid bills. "Fine then. We'll meet them for drinks. I have so much to do before I can go anywhere, though," Mom says, standing up. She sweeps her papers into a large pile. "I need to finish a report and then I should fax a few things to the office." Mom looks over at me. "We're finished, aren't we, Grace?" she asks.

I shrug.

"Make a list of your ideal schools and we'll look over it later," Mom says and bustles out of the kitchen.

Dad picks up my racket from the floor. "Someone might trip over this, Grace," he says handing me the racket. He follows after Mom.

I hold the racket in my lap and wonder, briefly, why Mom and Dad can still be friends with the Masons, but I can't be friends with Cokie. I push the thought aside. I take the racket upstairs to my bedroom, where I turn on MTV and lay around for an hour or so flipping through a tennis magazine. I circle the rackets I might buy. I circle the most expensive ones. When I finish with the magazine, I pick up my copy of _Taming Of The Shrew_. I've slowly plodded through it the last two days and am somewhere near the middle. It has a glossary in the back and I understand the play well enough without Gran's help. I wouldn't be comfortable reading it with her anyway. I read a few pages in each sitting, then sit it aside, always thinking of Gran. Maybe I can use that in my written analysis. It's not a very funny play.

Eventually, I find my way to my desk. I take out my long-neglected lists and fill in a few things about Mom that aren't too flattering. I consider a couple thoughts on Stacey and Emily, but spare them. They weren't at their best in the Hamptons – Emily was scared and Stacey was orange. I turn to Dawn's page with a whole novel worth of comments. I put my pen to the page and stare at the blank line. I write nothing. The words don't come.

I close the binder and go back to my bed, where I lay down to watch t.v. I lose myself in the program, staring vacantly at the flickering screen.

I don't surprise myself when I pick up the phone and dial. I've known since yesterday.

"Is Dawn there?" I ask when Sharon answers the phone.

"No, I'm sorry, she's not," Sharon replies and for a moment my heart flutters. "Abby picked her up half an hour ago for Claudia's party."

Abby? She's still in the picture?

"Can I take a message? Who is this?"

I almost simply hang up. But I decide on a higher road. "This is Grace, Mrs. Spier. I'm returning Dawn's call."

"Oh. Well, I'll pass on the message. Bye, Grace." Sharon hangs up.

I wonder if Mary Anne's there. I don't care what Mary Anne thinks.

But what is Dawn doing with Abby? I thought that was just a Hamptons thing, an alliance of convenience that would end with Bryce sneaking into Emily's bedroom. Maybe I've been replaced. Maybe Abby's the new me. I missed my window of opportunity.

"Grace!" Mom shouts, coming into my bedroom. "I thought you were going to mail these!" Mom extends a handful of envelopes toward me.

"What am I, your slave?"

"Yes!"

"It's Saturday, Mom. The post office is closed."

"I realize that, Grace. But you can still drop these in the inside slot. I want them to go out first thing Monday morning. Besides, you aren't doing anything."

"Fine," I say and take the envelopes. I grab my purse and drive downtown to the post office. Mom can be so ridiculous. Outside the post office, I run into Sheila McGregor and Andi Gentile, who are whores, but I stop to talk to them anyway. They've never been to Fiji or the Hamptons. It kills time.

By the time I return home, Mom and Dad are getting ready for cocktail hour at the Strathmore Inn. I order Chinese from Tokyo House and am still waiting for the delivery guy when my parents leave. Mom grumbles all the way out the door. I expect them home no sooner than one a.m. She'll change her tune.

It's around eight when the telephone rings. I've just come in from my evening swim and am lounging in the window seat with a carton of cold egg fried rice. I drop the carton on the floor, startled, and nearly choke on the rice. I leap up from the window seat and cross to the telephone. I take a deep breath and lift the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Grace?" replies Dawn's voice. "It's Dawn."

"Hi."

"You're finally over being mad."

I don't know that I am.

"I am considerably less dismayed than before," I say. It's the closest to the truth that I can articulate. "You should realize how lucky you are because usually, I hold a grudge forever."

"I just rolled my eyes," Dawn tells me and then pauses. "But I am sorry about what happened in the Hamptons and it was my fault."

"Not completely," I say and there's more that I wish I could say, but the words don't come easy for me. I have trouble even thinking them. They never make it to my lips. "I was harsh," I allow.

"You're a brutal girl," says Dawn. "Can we be friends again?"

I hesitate. Is it what I want? I know that Stacey is right, I don't really know Dawn. I saw another side of her in the Hamptons. But how well do I know any of my friends? No one really knows me. There are things about me that would shock them. There are things about me that would turn them away.

"I'm re-opening the investigation into Aunt Margolo's suicide," I answer. "It's not any fun chasing down a mystery alone. Do you want to help me? I have some new leads."

"Sure! We can finally read the letter! Can you come over now? Jeff and I are home alone. Mom and Richard are out with his colleagues putting on a happy couple charade and Mary Anne's living with Stacey this weekend."

"Abby's not there?" I ask, nonchalantly.

"No. She dropped me off a little while ago. Erica's parents came home from the concert early and busted up the party."

"I'll be right over."

I hang up the phone and hurry to the bathroom, where I pull my damp hair into a clip. I throw on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and fold the diagram into my purse. I write my parents a Post-It and slam it onto the kitchen door. Then I'm out the door and out of the garage and on my way to finally reading Gran's letter.

I reach Dawn's house in record time. Dawn's waiting on the porch with Tigger and she's dressed in her white gauze skirt with the chunky black belt and a black tank top.

"Hey!" she greets me excitedly.

I'm taken aback, initially, then remember that like me, Dawn's anxious to read the letter. "Hi," I say, coolly, also remembering how furious I was only a few short days ago. I try to move past it. "Fancy party," I comment.

Dawn shrugs. "Not really. It was the typical unsupervised party that began at the lame hour of six o' clock. Logan and Cary never showed with the beer either. Abby and I went to Cabbages and Kings beforehand. It was cool. Come on, let's go upstairs."

We pass Jeff watching television in the living room. He grunts at me and Tigger races to join him on the couch. I follow Dawn up the stairs, attempting to push down the feeling creeping in my chest. How could she replace me so quickly? And with Abby Stevenson? It's insulting.

"How does Abby feel about her dream boy being a rapist?" I ask as Dawn begins rifling through her dresser drawers.

"I don't think you should throw that word around," Dawn admonishes. "We haven't talked about it. She still likes him. I can't remember which drawer…a-ha!" Dawn cries triumphantly, pulling the yellowed letter out from beneath a pile of sweaters. Her Connecticut clothes for her fleeting Connecticut life.

I take the letter from her and turn it over in my hands. The paper has yellowed with age and the ink faded, but I make out the addressee perfectly – Mrs. Allison McCracken, 744 Bertrand Drive, Stoneybrook, Connecticut. I shift my eyes to the postmark. It was mailed from Boston. I squint to make out the date, but it's blurred. I almost make out the year. "What does that look like to you?" I ask Dawn, pointing to the postmark.

"A five?" she guesses.

I nod. My mother would have been too old for a Children's Hospital by then. She would have been away at college.

"Do you know who it's from though?" Dawn asks, eagerly, crowding in beside me.

Finally, I glance at the return address. My stomach drops and then soars upward.

"Who is Dr. Arthur Abbott? Do you know him?" asks Dawn.

"He was Cokie Mason's grandfather," I answer. I am bewildered. I turn over the letter, but there's nothing on the back. I flip it right side again.

"He lived in Boston?"

"I didn't think so. Her grandmother lives downtown. I thought…I thought he was a local doctor. He's been dead forever."

"Well, what kind of doctor was he?"

I tear my eyes from the envelope to regard Dawn. "I assumed a good baby-sitter would know that the maternity wing at Stoneybrook General is called the Arthur Abbott Birthing Center."

"Pardon me. So…did I steal the invoice from your mom's birth? This blows!"

"Did you not see the date?" I ask, waving the envelope in Dawn's face.

"Then why would he write your grandmother? Were they friends?"

"I don't think Gran had friends," I reply, honestly. "I know the Abbotts went to First Methodist and belonged to the Greenvale Country Club. And Mrs. Mason was behind my mother in school. I think she was in Aunt Corinne's grade, but…I don't know what this is." I stare down at the letter and suddenly, I am afraid. I want to believe I'm ready. This letter could be nothing and it could be everything.

"Only one way to find out," Dawn says with a nudge.

I nod and turn the envelope over again. It's been opened. It was torn open neatly, not jaggedly in a hurry. Gran took her time. I lift the flap and gently remove the letter inside. It's not as yellowed as the envelope, but I hold it delicately and unfold it slowly. The letter is handwritten on a sheet of paper with a Harvard Medical School heading. It's dated January the ninth.

"Well?" prods Dawn, pushing too close.

"Let me breathe," I snap and sweep my eyes over the letter. Then I begin to read: "Dear Allison," I start. "I was surprised and saddened to receive your letter. I knew I must respond promptly rather than wait for my next weekend visit to Stoneybrook. I understand why you were not comfortable telephoning or seeking me out in person, as yours is a delicate request. I must be upfront in telling you, Allison, that I cannot…" I pause and take a breath, staring at the words, "perform an illegal abortion for your daughter. I sympathize with your desperate situation, but legalities aside, I do not advocate the procedure for moral and health reasons. When I return to Stoneybrook, I will gladly assist in the proper arrangements for your daughter for the duration of the pregnancy. As per your request, I have not discussed the matter with anyone, least of all Mildred. I will remember you and your family in my prayers. Yours fondly, Arthur."

I stop reading and lower the letter. I continue to stare at it with its jumble of cursive and its high-peaking A's on _Allison_ and _Arthur_.

Beside me, Dawn gasps, and then covers her mouth to make herself silent.

"This has to be a mistake," I finally say, folding the letter back into its envelope. "Dr. Abbott was mistaken."

"Grace, unless he was schizophrenic, I doubt he imagined a letter from your grandmother. I mean…this is shocking, but…"

"But nothing. Gran wouldn't write anyone asking for an abortion. She's a Christian. She knows that abortion is wrong."

"Okay, I'm not getting into an abortion debate with you. I think we're ignoring the important part of this letter – who is Dr. Abbott talking about?"

I take out the letter again. "He doesn't say," I answer, helplessly.

"Okay, don't freak out – is it your mother?"

"No way," I scoff and put the letter away once more. "She was away at college and she didn't even have a boyfriend while at Smith. Besides, if my mother had gotten pregnant, my grandmother is the last person she would have told." I hide the letter beneath Dawn's pillow. I don't want to look at it. I cross my arms and think. "Aunt Corinne was just a little kid," I say. "But Aunt Margolo – "

"Was sixteen," finishes Dawn, her eyes lighting up. "Just like my mother." She cocks an eyebrow at me. "We are so stupid! We should have known all along! When we were looking through Mom's old yearbooks and your aunt disappeared after the Christmas Ball their junior year. We thought she only seemed to disappear, but she really did. Your grandmother sent her away because she was pregnant!"

Of course. It's so obvious.

"We're idiots," I tell Dawn.

"I'm from California, I should have guessed," Dawn says with a sigh. "Are you okay?"

I nod. "Certainly, yes," I reply with a strained smile. "I just don't understand…never mind. It's fine."

"So, this is it?" says Dawn and I can tell she expected more. "This is why your aunt killed herself? Because your grandmother sent her away in shame?"

I shrug. "I don't know. What happened to the baby?"

Dawn's eyes light again. It's easy for her. "I know all about this! I've seen it on Lifetime and Unsolved Mysteries! Back in the olden days, pregnant girls were sent away in shame to these special homes. Then when they gave birth, the nurse would whisk the baby out of the room without letting the mother even see it. The baby would be adopted and the girl would be sent home to pretend like nothing ever happened. Then she'd spend the next forty years searching for her child."

"That's fascinating," I remark, dismissively. "You think this is it?" Could it be? This is what we've been looking for all summer?

"I don't know."

There must be more. This is only the beginning.


	46. Chapter 46

I meet up with Dawn on the steps of the Stoneybrook Public Library first thing Monday morning. I arrive before opening while Erica Blumberg's raising the American and state flags and clearing out the book box. I wave to her and she calls out a greeting as she turns the crank on the flagpole. Several yards off, Mallory Pike's seated on a planter, making out with her skinny, big eared boyfriend Ben, a pile of paperbacks spilled at their feet. Mallory would manage to be a skank and a nerd. What a loser.

Dawn rides up on Mary Anne's bicycle and chains it outside the library entrance, and then joins me on the steps. She's wearing those ugly gray Birkenstocks with her gray capri pants and fitted moss-green tee.

"You look sort of nice," I tell her because I somehow feel guilty about all that's happened. I didn't do anything wrong and shouldn't feel this way. It's not like I need to win Dawn back. She's here. "Except for those shoes."

"They're comfy. Been waiting long?"

"Forever. It feels like ten years," I answer, although it's been more like ten minutes. I loathe waiting. "Does Mary Anne know you have her bike?"

"No. She forgot to re-hide it when she started hating me again."

"She's still mad about the Mr. Marshall thing?"

Dawn flips her blonde hair over her shoulder. "Let's not talk about that," she says, slouching forward over her knees. "Yes though, I guess. I doubt Stacey had many flattering words for me after last weekend."

"Probably not," I agree.

"I thought I was making progress, but…" Dawn trails off with a shrug.

"Stacey's loyalty is fierce," I say. At least when it comes to Mary Anne.

This is the first I've seen Dawn since Saturday night. I stayed at her house a couple hours after opening Gran's letter from Dr. Abbott, catching Dawn up on the new things I learned, then rehashing everything old and new again and again. We likely could have gone on forever, had Mr. and Mrs. Spier not returned home in the middle of a shouting match, so I sneaked out of the house. Dawn tried to sneak with me, but I couldn't allow it.

Yesterday, Dawn spent the day shopping in Stamford with her mom and brother, and I spent the day lying around poolside with Stacey and Mary Anne. No one mentioned Dawn. I stayed away from church and received a reprimanding phone message from Mari for the effort. I couldn't see Gran.

Saturday night, I didn't have time to ask Dawn an important question. I didn't make the time.

"Are you going back to California?" I ask while we wait for the library to open.

"Sure, when Dad and Carol get back from Europe."

"No, I mean, Mary Anne told us that you were leaving soon."

"Wishful thinking on Mary Anne's part. I tried, but Mom wouldn't let me go. Besides, no one would let me stay with them until September. Everyone has a life this summer. I could have gone to my friend Sunny's, theoretically, but I don't want to be at her house, and she'll be out here soon anyway and her ticket's non-refundable. You aren't rid of me yet. Is that why you called?"

"No."

Dawn smiles a tiny, smug smile. She looks back over her shoulder. "Erica's unlocking the doors," she says, rising to her feet.

We wait for Mallory to stop groping the front of Ben's pants, and then wait a few seconds more for them to disappear inside. I make sure to enter through a different door than Mallory. I'm not contracting anything that might be on her hands.

Dawn spins in her chair while we sit in front of the microfilm reader, waiting for the student employee to bring our roll of microfilm. It takes a million years and then he insists on loading it and explaining how to operate the reader, like Dawn and I are a couple of idiots who've never been inside a library before.

Dawn and I both try to turn the dial and Dawn smacks my hand. "I have a lot more experience researching mysteries," she informs me.

I roll my eyes, but drop my hand. "Whatever. I can't believe I'm in the library during summer vacation. This feels like school."

"Only interesting," says Dawn, turning the dial completely to the right, fast forwarding to the middle of April, to the date of Aunt Margolo's death. Dawn called with the idea last night, only she wanted to search for evidence of Aunt Margolo's pregnancy and the adoption. I suggested the time frame of her death instead. At least we know that location and date.

"You passed the fifteenth!" I scold Dawn. I've never seen Aunt Margolo's obituary or read anything about her death. I have butterflies beating their wings in my stomach, anxious and excited about what we might find.

Dawn turns the dial toward the center, slowing the advance of the film. "Her obituary won't be on the fifteenth. I'm going to the eighteenth," she explains, turning the dial to move at a crawl. "Here's Friday the eighteenth!" she cries, happily. "Why was your aunt home from college in the middle of the week?"

"I don't know. Maybe it was Easter vacation. Try the local section. That's where the obituaries are now."

Dawn nods and advances to the local section of The Stoneybrook News. "There she is! Told you so," says Dawn, stopping the film.

Aunt Margolo stares out at us from the microfilm reader, at the top of the page in black and white. There's a tiny black line through her forehead and the microfilm's not of the most superb quality, but she's recognizable and I know the photograph as one from Gran's mantle. At Gran's house, it's pushed to the back behind Aunt Corinne and Uncle Cullen's wedding picture and my freshman year school picture. It's Aunt Margolo on the day of her high school graduation, wearing her cap, the tassel drooping to the left of her face. She stares out blankly, not smiling.

"Margolo McCracken," Dawn reads from the obituary, "left this earth on April the fifteenth." Dawn snorts. "That's a polite way of putting it," she says. "Proceeded in death by grandparents Ronan and Margaret Macintosh of Providence, Rhode Island; and Lachlan and Aileen McCracken of Cambuslang, Scotland."

I remove the spider web diagram from my purse and draw a line from Margaret Macintosh's name, noting that she died sometime before Aunt Margolo.

"This isn't terribly informative," remarks Dawn with a sigh. "Survived by parents Ian and Allison McCracken of Stoneybrook; sisters Fay McCracken of New Haven, Connecticut and Corinne McCracken of Fairfield, Connecticut." Dawn rattles off the names of several now dead aunts and uncles and only one name I recognize, that of Mom's cousin Kathy in Lawrenceville. The rest of the obituary lists the names of the schools Aunt Margolo attended, but lacks any personal revelations. There is no mention of Aunt Margolo having any hobbies or interests, any life of her own. The obituary reads factual and cold, summing up Aunt Margolo's nineteen years in a slim, short paragraph.

I wonder what my obituary would say about me. My mind passes over a mistake I once made in which I was much luckier than Aunt Margolo. I push beyond it.

"We already knew all this," Dawn complains, sulking in her chair.

"What did you expect? That it would close with 'Margolo birthed a bastard child during her junior year of high school and it now happily resides in Danbury, Connecticut'?"

Dawn covers her mouth to stop from laughing and ends up snorting loudly. The librarian at the desk shoots us an icy glare.

"Let's go back to the sixteenth," I suggest. "There must be something about the suicide. Stoneybrook was tiny back then, the suicide was bound to be big news."

Dawn nods and rewinds the film. The seventeenth and sixteenth roll past and Dawn stops. She whistles lowly, quiet enough the librarian misses it. "Front page news," she says in a hushed voice and reads the headline: "Former Homecoming Princess Commits Suicide." Beneath the headline is the Homecoming Court photo we found in Sharon's yearbook from junior year. Aunt Margolo stands at the center of the photo in a floor-length gown and long white gloves, an arm raised and frozen in a wave, a rare smile playing on her lips. To her right, is a short pug-nosed girl and to her left, Sharon Porter, also in a gown and long gloves, forever waving beside Aunt Margolo. The others have been cropped out of the photograph.

Was Aunt Margolo already pregnant at Homecoming? What was she thinking while she smiled and waved at the unseen crowd?

"Miss Margolo McCracken, age nineteen, daughter of Mr. Ian McCracken of Bertrand Avenue," Dawn begins to read aloud, "was found dead yesterday in the early-afternoon by her mother Mrs. Allison McCracken. The cause of death was an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head." Dawn sucks in her breath. "She shot herself?" Dawn cries as quietly as possible.

"Yes," I reply, matter-of-factly. "How did you think she did it?"

"I don't know. Some less violent way, I guess," Dawn answers with a shudder. "How horrible," she says before leaning forward and resuming reading. "Miss McCracken was a lifelong resident of Stoneybrook and a graduate of Stoneybrook High School. She was currently a sophomore at Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts, where she was a student of the fine arts. Miss McCracken was a popular student while attending Stoneybrook High School, participating in many theater productions and student art shows. She was a standout on the girl's tennis team and a champion diver. She was voted Homecoming Princess of the Homecoming Court during her Junior year. Details regarding her suicide were not available at press time. According to Sergeant Bukowski of the Stoneybrook Police Department, police are currently investigating the origin of the antique revolver and the circumstances surrounding Miss McCracken's tragic and shocking suicide."

Dawn and I sit silently for a moment.

"I didn't know Gran found her," I finally say. I knew nothing beyond that Aunt Margolo died in the springtime and shot herself somewhere in the house.

"There must be a follow up article," I tell Dawn. "Let's try the seventeenth."

Dawn advances the film and once again finds Aunt Margolo to be front page news. The article is much longer and spans the entire page. The seventeenth's headline reads: New Information In Shocking Death and accompanies a photo of Aunt Margolo in a Stoneybrook High production of My Fair Lady. She looks very young, maybe fourteen or fifteen.

When Dawn doesn't make a move, I lean forward and begin reading to her: "New details have come to light on the shocking suicide of nineteen-year-old Margolo McCracken, daughter Mr. and Mrs. Ian McCracken of Bertrand Avenue. As previously reported, Miss McCracken was found dead on Tuesday afternoon by her mother, Mrs. Allison McCracken. Miss McCracken apparently shot herself sometime in the late-morning hours while her mother shopped in New Hope with the family housekeeper, Mrs. Elsa Matheson of Birch Street. Her father, Mr. Ian McCracken, was in New York City on business. Upon returning home, Mrs. McCracken went upstairs to her bedroom where she found her daughter lying in the center of the room. Mrs. Matheson telephoned the police and an ambulance for Mrs. McCracken, who fainted at the scene." I pause for a breath. "It was not immediately clear which daughter lay dead upstairs as none of the three McCracken girls live in the family residence. The body was briefly identified as that of the McCracken's eldest daughter Fay, a second-year law student at Yale University. A phone call to the school soon revealed that Fay McCracken was currently sitting an exam. It is thought that Miss McCracken returned to Stoneybrook by train and her car has since been located at the Smith College campus. It is still unknown why Miss McCracken left the school."

I stop for another breath and Dawn seizes the chance to ask, "How did they not know who it was?"

"Think about it, Dawn," I reply with a pointed look. I return my eyes to the reader and begin again in a low voice, "The gun in question has been revealed to belong to a neighbor, Mr. Charles Porter."

Dawn gasps. "Pop-Pop?" she exclaims, causing the librarian to jump out of her seat and shoot us a nasty look. "Pop-Pop doesn't own a gun!"

"And I think we know why," I say and realize how inappropriate the words are as soon as they leave my mouth. I ignore myself and clear my throat. "Mr. Porter is a known avid collector of firearms," I read to Dawn. "Mr. Porter told police that he didn't notice the antique revolver missing and does not recall when he saw it last. It is also unknown to Mr. Porter when Miss McCracken last entered his home. According to Mr. Porter, Miss McCracken and his daughter Sharon were childhood friends, but have not spoken in some time. Sharon Porter lives in California and has yet to be contacted by police."

The remainder of the article focuses on Aunt Margolo's various activities while a student at Stoneybrook High. I skim it, reading to myself. When I finish, I glance over at Dawn, who's sitting back in her chair with a stunned expression on her face.

"Are you all right?" I ask.

Dawn nods, but her expression quickly changes to anger. "Granny never told me!" she hisses. "She said your aunt killed herself a long time ago and that Mom had been her best friend. Granny even told me that she and old Mr. Cormack were the first people on the scene after the police arrived. But she never said it was Pop-Pop's gun. I can't believe it."

"It's probably a hard thing for her to remember," I tell Dawn. I smooth out my diagram and draw a new line from Aunt Margolo's suicide bubble. I write Mr. Porter's gun. I want to draw a line between it and Sharon Porter, but that's premature. I wonder if the police ever contacted her. I wonder what she knows and isn't saying, then and now. And then something occurs to me, something I've not thought of in awhile. From the thickly circled Sharon Porter bubble, I draw a line to Aunt Margolo's ring. It fits in somewhere.

"The whole thing is sick."

"I thought you wanted a mystery," I comment.

Dawn shrugs. It's just like after we went into Gran's attic.

"Can we go now?" asks Dawn.

"I'm not finished," I reply, testily. "Why are you so agitated? Your family just supplied the gun, my family did everything else."

Dawn clamps her mouth shut, appropriately chastised.

I take two quarters out of my wallet and feed them into the coin machine. I press print and the microfilm machine rumbles and spits out a splotchy copy of the article. I scroll forward again and make a print of Aunt Margolo's obituary. Then I move farther forward, searching for later mentions of her death. There is nothing else until the following week, a short article at the bottom of the front page and continued on the third. It begins by stating that the reasons behind Aunt Margolo's suicide remain a mystery and the paper conjectures, may never be known. The reporter interviewed Aunt Margolo's roommate at Smith, who described Aunt Margolo as being "depressed and moody" since returning from Christmas break and in recent weeks had stopped attending classes. It's a darker, less sympathetic portrait of Aunt Margolo. The reporter also interviewed several former teachers and classmates who described Aunt Margolo as "odd and distant" and by contrast "wild, a party girl and popular with the boys". I take the latter as code for "notorious whore". The only fair words come at the end of the article when Dawn's grandmother calls Aunt Margolo "talented and eager to please" and a family friend identified as Miss Susannah Sanderson says she was "pretty but quiet". And those are the last words anyone has to say about Aunt Margolo. There is no other mention of her or her suicide for the rest of April. A week after her death, a series of robberies plagued the banks of Mercer and Sheridan and Aunt Margolo was forgotten. She remains as quiet in death as she apparently was in life.

When I drop the microfilm in the collection bin, Dawn says, "Let's go to Renwick's."

"I like Argo's."

"I don't want to run into Mary Anne."

"All right," I give in. It's not so important.

Dawn and I walk down to Renwick's, which is empty at this early hour. The lunch crowd will begin trickling in in another hour. We slide into a red leather booth in the back and order iced teas from the waitress. I wait until she brings our drinks and leaves again before beginning to speak.

"We need to make a list," I inform Dawn, removing a blank piece of lined paper from my purse. I flatten it on the table. "We'll write down everything we still don't know. First off, why did Aunt Margolo kill herself?" I say and carefully copy that question onto the paper. "Secondly, how did she get your grandfather's gun?" I write that, too.

"Doesn't this bother you?" Dawn interrupts my writing.

I look up. "Certainly, but we knew all along that she killed herself," I point out and return to the list, writing Why does Sharon have Aunt Margolo's ring? I don't make eye contact with Dawn. I won't admit how unnerved I was staring at the obituary, at the article announcing Aunt Margolo's suicide from beneath one of the lone happy photos I've ever seen of her. And I was especially unnerved to read Mom's name in print – or who she once was, Fay McCracken. It was a punch to the gut to learn that it was thought to be Mom in the bedroom, lying dead on the floor without a face. Who thought that? Gran? Elsa the housekeeper? The police? Mrs. Porter? And why would anyone assume it was Mom? My mother is strong despite her faults and flaws. She isn't weak like Aunt Margolo. She isn't weak like me.

I shake away the thoughts.

"It seems so gruesome. Why would she do that?" asks Dawn and she scrunches her face and her eyes and releases a sharp sniffle.

I am appalled.

"You aren't going to cry, are you?" I demand in disgust.

Dawn sniffles loudly a few more times. She shakes her head. "No, no," she insists, but she cries anyway. Fat tears drop from her eyes, rolling long trails down her cheeks. She wipes them away hurriedly.

"Aunt Margolo died nearly thirty years ago," I remind Dawn. I hand her a napkin. "It's not a surprise."

Dawn dries her eyes. "I'm not surprised. I'm sad. And it's not just your aunt, it's lots of things," says Dawn, dabbing at her now tearless cheeks with the napkin. Her mascara has cast a shadow beneath her eyes. "I lied to you when we met this summer," she admits.

I sit up straight. "Oh?" I respond, coolly, bracing myself.

"When I started asking about your aunt and why she killed herself, I said I was just curious. That was a lie. I was curious, but for a reason. A few months ago, a friend of mine attempted suicide. I wanted to know why someone would do that."

"Why didn't you ask your friend?"

"Because we're not – " Dawn waves her hand dismissively and shrugs.

I stare at Dawn, contemplating what to give away. "She probably thought there was nothing else," I say. I leave it at that. I distance myself, move away. "I don't care why you asked about Aunt Margolo. The reason doesn't matter. What matters is that you asked. No one cares about her anymore."

"I don't think that's true. If people didn't care, they wouldn't be protecting her."

"They aren't protecting her, they're protecting themselves."

Dawn stirs her iced tea, absently. "I think it still bothers Granny. It's understandable, I guess, because of the gun." Dawn shivers. "I hate guns."

"The gun was the means of killing her, not the reason," I point out.

"I wish Mom would talk about it."

"Mine too."

"I still think it's because of the baby," says Dawn. "Even though it wasn't mentioned in the paper. The Stoneybrook News obviously never found out she'd been pregnant. I bet hardly anyone knew. People must have noticed when she disappeared. We noticed in the yearbook."

"We can't ask Gran. She won't tell us anything," I say, thinking back to Dr. Abbott's letter. I don't know who Gran is anymore. I guess I never knew. "I don't know that Mom would be any better. What if she doesn't know? She was off at college and I don't think she came home often." I take a quick sip of iced tea. "Could you ask your grandparents? If anyone knows, it's them."

Dawn studies her iced tea as if it's truly fascinating. She picks her spoon up and begins stirring again.

"What?" I ask.

Dawn drops the spoon. "I hadn't decided if I would show you," she says and unzips her woven purse. "When we got off the phone last night, I started thinking about the photos you described in your mom's album. So, I looked through Mom's after she and Richard went to bed. I found this." Dawn takes a picture out of her purse and slowly reaches it across the table to me.

It's upside down and I have to turn it around. I hold it out in front of me, studying it, and then pull it closer for a clearer look. The picture is in faded color, old with a tiny rip in the top corner. The rip is right above the carrot-color of Aunt Margolo's hair, dulled with age, like the daffodil-yellow of her party dress. She's about sixteen, the same age as her Homecoming photo from the newspaper, and seated on the lap of a scrawny boy with a crew cut and horn-rimmed glasses. It's unmistakably Mr. Spier. They're in an armchair in the Porters living room. They look directly at the camera, at the person snapping the photograph. Aunt Margolo's arm drapes casually across Mr. Spier's shoulders. They appear so happy, their smiles so genuine that the eye is not instantly drawn to the bottom of the picture. The gaze must work to get there, to see Mr. Spier's hand caressing Aunt Margolo's bare knee.

"There's a question we didn't ask ourselves," says Dawn.

"Of course," I agree. "Aunt Margolo didn't get pregnant on her own."


	47. Chapter 47

It takes awhile for everything to digest.

Dawn and I sit in the booth in Renwick's for over an hour, drinking endless glasses of iced tea, and speaking in hushed voices. We rehash everything again and again. Now it all seems so obvious, right in front of our faces all along, watching and waiting for us to figure it out. I down my final glass of iced tea and toss a few dollars on the table and scoot out of the booth. I need the fresh air. The booth and Renwick's are suddenly stifling.

"Let me find my wallet…" says Dawn, half out of the booth, half buried in her purse.

"I got it. Come on."

I push through the front door and out onto the street into the warm summer day. It's hot and muggy today. I stand on the curb and stretch my long arms over my head, stretch my back after the time cramped in that booth, breathe the heated air. Dawn joins me, slinging her purse across her shoulder, and like me, wondering what we do next.

Next, we ultimately decide to see a movie. We walk the two blocks to Stoneybrook Cinema and buy tickets to the next showing, which happens to be a Rock Harding romantic comedy. It's not much interest to either of us, but it's there and it's starting in five minutes. We go inside and are surprised to see Stacey and Mary Anne standing in line at the concession stand. I start to duck out of sight, but Stacey spots me, and raises her eyebrows. I think she will let me go, let me silently slip into the theater with Dawn in tow. But she doesn't. She nudges Mary Anne with her elbow and Mary Anne turns her face away from the candy display. I wave and Stacey waves back, but Mary Anne looks away.

It hits me then, what hasn't necessarily occurred to me in the blur of the last couple of hours, that Mary Anne and I could be related. Somewhere in the world, perhaps somewhere close by, I may have a cousin and Mary Anne may have a half-sister or half-brother. And that would be the same person. Someone out there who may look like Gran and Aunt Margolo with their carrot-colored hair and blue eyes, and Mr. Spier's weasely face. Someone with a life and a career and a family who doesn't know their real mother shot herself in the head or that their real father is a doofus like Mr. Spier. That someone would be about thirty years old now. It could be anyone.

I turn away and follow Dawn into the theater. She doesn't say anything and neither do I. We climb to the back row and sit directly beneath the projector. Stacey and Mary Anne don't come into our theater. And when we leave an hour and a half later, rolling our eyes at the insipid movie plot, Stacey and Mary Anne are nowhere to be seen. There is a rift between us now and I wonder when the summer ends and we fall back into our regular pace how we will make it come together again. I don't want to be alone again like I was after Cokie.

I push that thought away, away and down, and let it be buried.

"It's the only thing that fits," Dawn says out of the clear blue as we walk down Main Street.

"What fits?"

"Richard, of course."

"Did you think about this all through the movie?"

"Of course. I had to have something to distract me from that mindless plot," Dawn answers. "Richard explains everything. Why your aunt disappeared, why she and Mom stopped being friends, why Granny and Pop-Pop hated Richard – "

"Why my mom doesn't like your mom," I add.

Dawn stops. "Your mom doesn't like my mom?" she asks.

I shrug. "She asked me not to hang out with you at the beginning of the summer."

"Why?"

I shrug again. "Because you're Sharon Porter's daughter, I guess."

Dawn is quiet, thinking. "You like to do things your mother says not to," she finally says, then starts walking again. "She probably thought Mom would tell me about your aunt."

"That isn't true," I protest. I mean to the former and not the latter. My voice comes out edgy, sharp. Dawn thinks she's so smart, that she knows me. She's barely glanced me, she barely knows me. Me or my mother or anything.

Dawn ignores the sharpness of my voice. She plows forth, countering her own thoughts. "But why _would_ Mom tell me about your aunt? It wouldn't just be your aunt, it would be your aunt _and Richard._ Mom and Richard may be miserable, but Mom wouldn't want to out a secret like that. She wouldn't do that to me, or to Mary Anne. That would be too cruel."

"My mother wouldn't know that."

"Your mother isn't _stupid. _Besides, would she really care all that much? From what you've said, it doesn't sound like she and Margolo got along so well."

"She doesn't like to talk about her."

"For any number of reasons, maybe," says Dawn. She shrugs. "I doubt it matters. Your mom may just not like my mom. Your mom probably dislikes lots of people."

My jaw drops. "That's not true!"

"It's not an _insult. _She just seems the picky sort," Dawn says, off-handedly, and I can tell she's trying to smooth it over. And so I let her.

We walk back to the Stoneybrook Public Library and get into my Corvette. Dawn leaves Mary Anne's bike chained outside the library. "Maybe someone will steal it and give Mary Anne a real reason to hate me," Dawn says, lightly. We drive around downtown trying to decide our next move, our next destination. I had promised myself that today I would visit Stoneybrook Manor and Elsa Matheson, but it doesn't seem possible now. Not today. So, we need something else, some other distraction.

"Let's go see Julie and Emily," suggests Dawn as we roll down Essex and passed the Bernsteins' pharmacy.

"They're at Journalism camp," I remind her.

"Oh, that's right," she says and rolls down her window and dangles her arm out. "Want to go see your grandmother?"

"No," I respond, flatly. Dawn may want to continue sleuthing, but Gran isn't someone I wish to see now. She isn't someone I know. "We'll go see Mari," I decide.

"Mari doesn't like me."

"Ah, that's just Mari," I tell her, turning the Corvette in the direction of Cherry Valley Road. We cruise passed the hospital and around the corner to Mari's house. The Drabeks live in a brown two-story house right across the street from Stoneybrook General. On the nights that I sleep over at Mari's, I can look out her bedroom window to see the glow of the lights of the ER and all night long hear ambulance sirens race to and away.

We park at the curb and Dawn follows me reluctantly up the walk to the front porch. I lean on the doorbell until Dawn smacks my hand away. Mari opens the front door wearing ratty jean shorts and a tank top, her dirty blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. "Oh!" she says in surprise, seeing Dawn and I unexpectedly on her stoop. "Did I know you were coming?" she asks, in her point blank Mari way.

"Do you suspect you're getting senile, Mar?" I ask her, trying to beat her around to a good mood. "We were out and thought we'd stop by," I tell her and push my way inside. Otherwise, Mari could keep us standing there for eternity, inquiring pointlessly about the details of our unexpected arrival.

"Oh? Where were you?" asks Mari, following me into the foyer, leaving Dawn behind.

"Nowhere. Downtown. We saw that Rock Harding movie. What is it called, Dawn? _My Phantom Prince_?"

"Oh! I want to see that!" exclaims Mari.

"Why? It's terrible. He isn't really a ghost. Now I've saved you five dollars and two hours of your life."

Mari pulls a face, but I ignore it.

"So, what are you up to, Mar?" I ask her.

"Oh, not much. I've just been down in my studio," she answers. Mari's studio is actually half of the rec room, the other half being devoted to her little brother and his many toys. "And I'm baby-sitting Derek," she says with a roll of her eyes.

"Who?" replies Dawn.

"My brother," Mari says, edgily, like Dawn should know. Mari rolls her eyes at me again just as behind her, Dawn shoots me a look. I shrug for the both of them.

"Let's see what you're working on," I suggest and head for the door underneath the stairs that leads to the rec room. I head down uninvited.

The rec room is in its usual disastrous state – Lego sets mixing on the floor, half-empty bottles of Yoo-Hoo set on the television, jellybeans spilled all over the couch, and on Mari's side of the room a clutter of unfinished projects scattered over the tables with paint tubes and pencils, empty canvases leaning against the wall, and on the table to where Mari's stool is sitting, a large block of gray clay with a rearing horse head erupting from the misshapen mass, presumably Mari's current project. Mari has no one area of art in which she focuses, instead she dabbles, always searching for her passion.

"I didn't know you were an artist, too," comments Dawn, picking up a small clay sculpture of a bird.

"Oh, you're an artist?" asks Mari with a hint of interest. "I didn't know."

"No, I meant I didn't know you were an artist in addition to, you know, playing tennis and cooking," corrects Dawn.

"I'm multi-talented," says Mari, taking the sculpture from Dawn.

"It's cool that you have so many hobbies," Dawn tells her.

Mari frowns. "I don't have _hobbies_," she says, scathingly. "I have _talents._"

Dawn cocks an eyebrow at her, then turns it on me. "Okay, sorry," she says. "I like your stuff. I wish I could draw or something."

Mari snorts.

It was a mistake to come. I don't get what Mari's deal is. Certainly, she's always been the prickly sort, always suspicious of new people, but she's being downright rude. Believe it or not, at school, Mari's quite popular, and in youth group, too. Most everyone likes Mari, even if Mari doesn't exactly like most everyone. I get Mari usually. I am used to navigating Mari, steering around her moods. I don't get Mari now.

"Where's your brother?" Dawn asks Mari.

"I don't know."

"I thought you were baby-sitting."

"Well, I'm sure he's not dead," snaps Mari.

I want to tell Mari to stop acting like a jerk, but instead I simply announce, "I'm thirsty," and head back upstairs, just expecting the others to follow. I help myself to a glass of water in Mari's kitchen and then sort of poke around the counters. Mari's family usually has something interesting sitting out – muffins or tea cakes or slices of bread, always in strange, experimental combinations and flavors. The last time I was over Mari and her dad made a pound cake with an orange-boysenberry glaze.

"We have éclairs in the fridge," Mari tells me. "Dad brought them home last night."

Mari and I sit at the kitchen table and split an éclair while Dawn leans against the stove, sipping a glass of water. She declines my offer of a bite.

"All that sugar would make me sick," she says.

"Then it's lucky your dad's not the dessert chef at Chez Maurice," Mari replies, haughtily.

"Yeah, I guess it is," says Dawn, taking a long sip of water.

I am at a loss, feeling trapped between them, their back and forth. Must every place in my life be a battleground? I pop the last of the éclair in my mouth, resist the urge to lick my fingers, instead wiping them on a napkin. I take another sip of water. All these silent, awkward pauses in my life.

"So, what's new?" I ask, feigning brightness and cheer.

Mari shrugs. "Just waiting for August when I get out of here again for church camp, " she answers. Mari spends her summers running, looking for her escapes, filling her time with time away from Stoneybrook. Two summers ago, she ran to four different summer camps. I missed her. "I'm mapping out my own vegetable garden," Mari adds, landing on something of interest to her. "I'm thinking about harvesting mushrooms. We had a seminar on it at culinary camp."

"Fascinating," I reply.

"I think it sounds neat," says Dawn, perhaps telling the truth, perhaps seeking Mari's approval. "But is that safe?"

"I wouldn't do it if it wasn't safe," says Mari. "My parents wouldn't let me."

Mari takes us outside to show us the plot of earth she and her father have cleared for a vegetable garden. She comes to life, shedding some of her prickles. I do my best to be pleased at the change, but it's all so uninteresting that I can't work up much enthusiasm.

We leave not long afterward. Mari walks us to the door and onto the front porch. We chat, briefly, little words of goodbye. Dawn has checked out, and I suppose none of us know why we came.

Dawn and I head down the front walk and I glance behind to see Mari sit down on the stoop, folding her skinny arms around the knees of the ratty jean shorts. We're halfway down the walk when a red sports car pulls to a stop at the curb and Mari's mother climbs out of the back seat. She shuts the car door and waves to her car pool as they pull back into the street and take off down Cherry Valley Road. Mari's mother starts up the walk toward Dawn and I, hoisting an oversize bag onto her shoulder. Mari's mother isn't like Mari. She's taller and wider with ample hips and heavy legs. Mari's mother doesn't want to be called Mrs. Drabek, only Jennifer, something my tongue never quite allows me to do. So I avoid calling her anything at all.

"Hello, girls," she greets Dawn and I, warmly, as we make room for her on the path. "Having a good summer?"

"Yes," I reply, walking on.

"Stay for dinner next time," she calls after me, and then, "Mari! Did you even invite Grace to stay for dinner?"

I unlock the Corvette and duck into the driver's seat, but look to the house as I insert the key in the ignition and turn over the car. Mari's risen from the stoop and walks into the house, slamming the door in her mother's face. Mari's mother waits a beat and then opens the door and slips inside.

Dawn and I drive away.

"You're not usually so accommodating," Dawn comments after a minute or two.

"I drive you all the time," I reply.

"No, that's not what I meant," Dawn says and pauses. "I've never seen you bend for anyone like that."

"I have no idea what you mean."

"You bend for Mari," Dawn continues. She chooses her words, mulls them over. "You work hard for her…for her what? What is it?" Dawn turns her head to look at me, watches with curiosity.

"I have no idea what you mean," I repeat. My arms stiffen, my hands tighten on the steering wheel.

"She's such a wet blanket. Why do you care about her approval?"

"Mari's not a wet blanket," I tell Dawn. "She's my friend."

"Some friend. You aren't even yourself."

"You wouldn't understand."

"No, I _get it. _Mari's difficult, Mari's moody. Blah blah blah."

"There's that. Yes," I agree, allowing Dawn that. "But you still don't understand."

"Then maybe you should explain it to me. Is she blackmailing you or something? Got some good dirt on you? Because you don't seem to enjoy yourself with her. Do you even _like_ Mari?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I like her. She's my doubles partner," I answer, dismissively. Of course, I like Mari. She's my oldest friend. She chose me when no one else did. "She's my oldest friend."

"Hmm," Dawn murmurs, turning her head from me to gaze out the window as I speed through a yellow light.

"She's very loyal. We've been friends since kindergarten," I tell Dawn, the need to convince her creeping through my words. I want her to believe. "Since kindergarten," I repeat. I remember starting kindergarten with Cokie already my best friend, and we would sit atop the jungle gym as recess queens with Erica Blumberg and Lauren Hoffman, stamping on the fingers of lesser girls hanging from the monkey bars – girls like Emily Bernstein and Mary Anne Spier. But in class I sat with Mari, the second tallest girl in the room, at our own private table, and walked with her at the end of the line. We stood together with Miss Coolson at the back of the class picture and again for the class concerts. Mari was the first friend I made on my own. The first friend I made on my own in the space between infancy and high school. And even though I shot up far passed her, growing long and lean while she petered out at an average height, I made her and kept her.

And Dawn could never understand that.

"Just don't make me go over there again," says Dawn. "I'm not a fan."

"All right, I won't," I promise, but I take it as a personal affront. I shouldn't.

"Do you think Richard knows?" asks Dawn.

"Knows what?"

"Graaaace," Dawn whines, tossing her head backward in exasperation. "Where have you been all day? On another planet? Sheesh!"

I purse my lips together. "Sorry," I say, tightly. "But I can't follow your random thought process."

"What's wrong? Are you mad?"

"No!"

"What, are you mad about Mari?"

"Why would I be mad about someone I apparently don't even _like_?"

Dawn sighs.

"Nevermind," I tell Dawn. I realize I've been turning circles around downtown Stoneybrook. I make a left turn and head for Dawn's neighborhood. I am unable to bite my tongue. "I just doubt you'd like it if I insulted your oldest friend. You know, Soupy."

"Soupy? _Soupy_?" roars Dawn. She throws her head back with such quick force she nearly knocks the headrest off the seat. "Her name is Sunny!"

I roll my eyes. Either name is stupid.

"You crack me up, Grace," Dawn says, wiping her eyes.

"Thank you," I reply, not seeing the humor at all.

Dawn laughs for three more blocks. I find it annoying.

When she finally finishes, she says, "Anyway…my Soupy isn't a wet blanket. She's a firecracker. That's what my stepmom calls her."

"Mari could be a firecracker," I say, even though I don't actually believe it. "You don't even know."

Dawn laughs again.

My shoulders tense slightly. I'm irritated without explanation. I want my annoyances to have meaning. I am bothered by Dawn, by the whole situation. Why? It's stupid. It's silly. Dawn doesn't like Mari – that's hardly my problem. I detest Abby Stevenson, but I don't judge Dawn too harshly for liking her. But I want to win this for some reason.

I try to shake it off. I turn onto Burnt Hill Road. Dawn's house comes into view.

"When Cokie and I stopped being friends," I hear myself say before I truly know I'm saying it. I never mention Cokie. Not to anyone. I avoid her even in my own head. "Cokie, Mari, and I were friends, but Mari chose me. Everyone else, they stayed with Cokie. Mari stayed with me."

"Maybe she just didn't like Cokie," Dawn replies, off-handedly.

It's like a slap in the face.

I look at Dawn as I pull into her empty driveway. She's gathering her things, searching for her keys. She doesn't think of what she's said. It's forgotten.

I squeeze the steering wheel until my knuckles turn stark white. I don't speak.

It's like saying I'm not special.

"So, tomorrow, Stoneybrook Manor, right?" Dawn asks, opening her door. "We wasted too much time today. We need to get to the serious sleuthing." She leans back inside the car. She cocks an eyebrow at me. "Grace? Stoneybrook Manor, right? We're tracking down Elsa Matheson tomorrow?"

"Yes. Of course," I answer. "I have to go home."

Dawn's eyebrow lowers to furrow with the other. "All right. I'll call you in the morning. Good night!" Dawn slams the door and hurries up the walk to her darkened house. She spins around once to wave.

I throw the Corvette into reverse and fly out of the driveway, peeling down Burnt Hill Road. I am upside-down. I am reeling. It's all these little things I've held so close that are slowly crumbling.


	48. Chapter 48

It's the usual routine in the morning. I wake in an empty house. I do one hundred push-ups and one hundred sit-ups. I go for an early morning jog. I swim two hundred laps in the pool. I eat breakfast over the sink. It's the usual routine in the morning. But I feel in my bones, deep within myself, that slowly and surely, nothing in my life will be usual ever again.

I take a long hot shower. I wash my hair with coconut mango-scented shampoo. I rotate beneath the spray, letting the water wash over me, consume me. I delay the inevitable. It is safer here, however, spinning in the shower, locked in a stall by myself, locked away from the world.

Eventually, I have to come out. Eventually, everything must go on.

I blow dry my hair. I brush it out and then braid it, twist a black band around the end. I apply my make up while still wrapped in a fluffy ivory towel. I take my time. I have patience with myself. I feel like I am about to march off toward my execution. I am marching toward something, something in the distance I can't quite see. It blurs there and I am fearful, but I keep marching still. There's no going back. I won't like what's there in the distance. I have enough clues to know that. I have enough sense to know that. But I keep on.

Today, we will have a breakthrough and I have a heavy heart.

I dress in my new navy blue tube dress, the one with the drawstring waist. The Hampstons seem an eternity ago. Everything seems an eternity ago. I slide a pair of white sandals onto my feet. I need a pedicure. I need so many superficial things, and a few concrete.

The telephone rings as I finish getting ready, as I am sliding my garnet earrings into my earlobes. I hurry to the bedside, grabbing for the phone, thinking it is Dawn.

It's not.

"You've been avoiding me," comes Gran's voice, cool and breezy.

"Of course not," I lie. I manage a laugh. "I saw you just a few days ago."

"You missed church," Gran reminds me. "Perhaps, I've simply become spoiled by the frequency of your visits. Is everything quite all right, Grace, dear?"

Grace, dear. Grace, dear. She's starting up with the Grace, dear again.

"Of course," I reply, shortly.

Gran pauses. "Are you certain?" she asks.

"Certainly," I reply. "I'm just busy. I have a lot going on. You're the one who told me to get a life this summer."

"I hardly think I told you to 'get a life'," Gran says. "If you aren't busy today, would you like to come over? I can make lunch and we can discuss your latest book."

"I don't think so. I have plans."

Gran pauses again. "Perhaps another day then," she finally says. "Let me know when your social calendar clears."

"Bye," I say and hang up.

I sit on the bed, staring at the phone, hands gripping my knees. I look away, as if averting my gaze will keep it from ringing again. I feel bad. I feel guilty. But I can't. Gran isn't the moral center I took her for. She isn't my moral compass. And I fear there are things about her, buried deep and covered over, that are even worse.

I should have listened to my mother.

I call Dawn. "I'm ready," I tell her when she answers.

"All right. I'm waiting," she replies. "See you soon."

I hang up and rise from the bed. I steel myself. No going back.

When I leave the room, I pass the trophy case. I stop to look at the photo set behind my many tennis trophies, the photo of Mari and me swinging our rackets in perfect synchronized motion. I don't understand.

Dawn waits for me on the front steps of her house, Tigger seated at her side, rubs his head against her arm. Dawn jumps up when she spots my car, startling Tigger and sending him running underneath the porch. Dawn herself runs to me, her green woven purse beating against her knee. She hops in the front seat and I immediately see that her cheeks are flushed with excitement. It still isn't completely real to her. Where is the Dawn of yesterday, the Dawn with the tears for my long dead aunt?

I reverse out of the driveway without a word.

"What's the plan?" Dawn finally asks when we're far from Burnt Hill Road.

"No real plan."

"I thought you'd have a list of questions. Aren't you all about lists?"

"I don't think we should go in there with a notepad full of questions like we're there to interrogate her."

"But isn't that what we're doing?"

"Not exactly."

I turn onto Essex and take the street all the way through downtown Stoneybrook until all the restaurants and storefronts disappear and there is only Stoneybrook Manor looming at its end. I pull into the parking lot and circle until I find the nearest empty spot. I turn off the car and take a breath.

"Ready?" Dawn asks.

"Of course."

I open the car door and slide out, slinging my purse strap over my shoulder. I head toward the entrance, Dawn falling into step beside me, the bottoms of her Birkenstocks slapping against the pavement. I push through the front doors and am both pleased and less than pleased to see Rachel Stern standing behind the front desk, flipping through a manila file, dressed in her mauve scrubs. She stands behind two other girls, also in mauve scrubs, seated at the desk. She glances up as Dawn and I approach.

"What are you doing here?" Rachel asks, crankily. She sounds like Mrs. Bernstein.

"We're here to see a patient."

"We don't have patients. We have residents," Rachel informs me, just as crankily.

"We're here to visit a resident then. Elsa Matheson." I wait expectantly for her room number.

Rachel just stares at me. "Why?"

"None of your business," I snap. I'm nervous enough already. I don't need Rachel giving me a hard time, acting like her usual bitch self.

"I don't know if that resident is cleared for visitors."

"You told Julie she was!" I cry.

"Shhh!" Rachel hisses, glancing around. "God…" she curses, tossing the file onto the desk. "I'll show you to her room." Rachel shoves through the desk's swinging door and stalks off down the hall.

I roll my eyes at Dawn.

"She must have a _lovely_ bedside manner," Dawn whispers.

"Seriously," I mutter and follow after Rachel, who walks briskly down the hallway, blonde ponytail swinging in the air. She looks exactly like Julie from the back. She isn't anything like Julie at all.

Rachel leads us all the way to the back of Stoneybrook Manor. It occurs to me – and wouldn't surprise me one bit – if Rachel were simply leading us on a wild chase, circling us around and around the Manor. We pass several slow-moving residents in the hallway, pushing forward behind their walkers. I can't even look at them. We also pass several large rooms, filled with a crowd of gray heads. In one room, a male orderly leads a rousing game of Bingo, calling out, much too loudly , "I 24!" as we walk by. In another room, two girls in matching mauve scrubs lead a group of residents in exercises, shouting, "Lift your arms above your heads!" as we turn down another hallway.

Rachel finally stops at the end of a deserted hallway. She pushes a door open and peers in, then shuts it gently. There's a handwritten placard on the door that reads: _Elsa Matheson._ Finally.

"She's napping," Rachel informs us.

I shrug. Old people are always napping.

"Can we go in?" Dawn asks.

Rachel shrugs. "It's up to you. You may have a long wait."

Dawn and I exchange a look. "We could wake her," Dawn suggests.

"That's not very respectful," Rachel comments.

"I'm sure you wake them all the time."

"This is my job," Rachel says. "Are you going in? I have work to do."

Beside me, Dawn nods. She cracks the door open and looks in. She turns to me. "Come on."

I hesitate. "I don't like old people," I whisper.

Dawn gapes at me. "What about your grandmother?" she hisses.

"She isn't _old_," I reply. I look over Dawn's head into Elsa Matheson's room. I see part of her hospital bed, part of her window, but no part of her. I lower my voice. "Old people make me uncomfortable. I feel sorry for them."

"We shouldn't pity the elderly," Rachel says, snottily. "We should admire them." Then she turns and takes off down the hall. She vanishes around a corner.

I roll my eyes at Dawn again.

"Weird," Dawn says and peeks into Elsa Matheson's room again. She glances over her shoulder at me. "Come on, Grace. Jump in feet first." And with that Dawn slips inside Elsa Matheson's room.

I have no choice but to follow.

The lights are dimmed in the room, the curtains only partially open. The television's turned on to an infomercial for an acne medication, but muted. There's a hospital bed and two worn armchairs near the window, a bedside table and a short dresser. The door to the bathroom stands open. Elsa Matheson lays on her back in the center of the hospital bed, the bed partially inclined upwards so she may see the television. She remains asleep as we creep into the room, hands curled over her chest, mouth open. The room has an old person smell of rosewater cream and menthol.

I hang back.

Dawn steps forward, though, and leans over Elsa Matheson. "Mrs. Matheson," she hisses. "Mrs. Matheson."

Elsa Matheson stirs, but doesn't open her eyes.

Dawn looks back to me and cocks an eyebrow. She gestures to the sleeping woman in the bed.

_Why me? _I mouth at her.

"You're the one who always thinks she's in charge," Dawn replies in a hushed voice.

I purse my lips, but step forward. I come to stand beside the bed. Even in the dim light, Mrs. Matheson's skin looks as thin as paper. She's much older than Gran, much older than expected. I prod her arm with a finger. "_Mrs. Matheson," _I whisper, sharply. "_Mrs. Matheson!" _I poke her again.

Mrs. Matheson moves her hand away, murmurs, and slowly opens her eyes. I jump back, bumping into Dawn.

"Who's that?" Elsa Matheson croaks, her eyes shifting, searching. "Carla?"

"No, it's not Carla," I answer, not knowing what else to say. Where to begin?

Elsa Matheson fumbles with her glasses on the bedside table. She slides them onto her face. "Open the curtains," she says in that croaky voice. "I can't see you."

Dawn obeys, crossing to the window and parting the curtains. Elsa Matheson's room looks out onto a rose garden.

"Mrs. Matheson," I begin. "I'm – "

"Oh!" cries Mrs. Matheson and she reaches out and catches my hand. She squeezes it with what little strength she has. "Fay," she croaks, softly.

"No, Mrs. Matheson…"

"No, Elsa," she corrects. "It's Elsa, Fay." She gives my hand another vague squeeze. "Pour me a glass of water, Fay," she croaks and follows it with a sharp cough.

I exchange a look with Dawn, who raises her hands, telling me she doesn't know what to do either. I take the water pitcher from the bedside table and fill the clear plastic cup beside it. I hand it to Mrs. Matheson, who has finally released my hand. I watch her drink with unsteady hands and then take the cup from her when she's done. She coughs again, very softly, and leans her head back against the pillows. She watches me with pale, pale blue eyes from beneath their droopy lids.

"Fay," she sighs and reaches for my hand again. I let her take it. "It's been so long."

"Mrs. Matheson, I'm not Fay," I tell her. "I am Grace, her daughter."

Mrs. Matheson doesn't hear me or doesn't listen or doesn't process what I've said. Rachel told Julie that Elsa Matheson has dementia. Surely, otherwise, she would know that my mother is much, much older now. "Mrs. McCracken brought me flowers last week," she tells me and points to the bedside table. I turn to see an empty green ceramic vase sitting there. "I so look forward to her visits."

I raise an eyebrow at Dawn, who mouths back, _I don't know! _Elsa Matheson still has my hand in hers.

"Elsa," I say in a loud voice, "I apologize that it's been so long since my last visit."

Dawn nudges me. I shoot her a withering look.

"I'm always happy to see my Fay," Mrs. Matheson replies. "You always were my pretty girl."

Dawn nudges me again, but I completely ignore her.

"Are you still going to the prom with Ted Kilbourne?" Elsa asks me.

"Elsa, I'm married now," I tell her.

"You are? Why wasn't I invited?"

"We got married at the court house," I remind her.

"Oh, yes, of course…my memory…" she trails off. "Who is that?" she asks, looking over my shoulder, noticing Dawn for the first time.

"No one. Just an orderly," I say and I feel a bit mean. But there are things I need to know. "Actually, Elsa, I came to talk to you about Margolo."

"Margolo?"

"Yes, you remember Margolo."

"Yes, of course. She painted my picture once. It's hanging over there on the wall." Elsa points behind me. When I turn around, the wall is bare.

I don't have a good feeling about this.

But I plunge on. "We don't have much time, Elsa. There's something I need to know about Margolo. What happened to the baby?"

"What baby? Corinne? Corinne's at boarding school in Fairfield."

"No, not Corinne. Corinne's all grown up."

"Mrs. McCracken sent her away. My poor Corinne, she's so homesick. She'll be home for Easter. I'm making candied yams, those are her favorite."

"No, not Corinne," I insist. I feel myself getting angry. "I want to know about Margolo."

"You've always blamed Corinne," Mrs. Matheson says, sadly. "It wasn't her fault. And you've never forgiven Mrs. McCracken. Why are you so angry, Fay?"

"I don't know," I answer, honestly.

"The past should stay in the past," says Mrs. Matheson, "because when you get to be old, that's all there is. I've forgiven Mrs. McCracken."

"What did you forgive her for?" Dawn pipes up from the shadows.

Mrs. Matheson has forgotten Dawn. She thinks I spoke. "I never told, Fay, only you. I kept Mrs. McCracken's secret."

"What secret? Which one?" I ask, hurriedly. "I don't…I don't remember, Elsa. You need to remind me."

Mrs. Matheson draws a shallow, rattling breath and her eyes lose focus, become dreamy. I pour her another cup of water and she drinks it eagerly. She collapses back into the pillows again. She's falling away from us.

"I don't remember," I prod her.

Mrs. Matheson sighs. "I only told you, Fay," she repeats. "I didn't tell the police."

"Holy crap," Dawn mutters behind me.

My resolve falters. Perhaps, I shouldn't push anymore. Perhaps, I don't need to know.

Perhaps.

"Remind me, Elsa."

Mrs. Matheson murmurs something to herself. She coughs again. "Mr. and Mrs. McCracken were very good to me," she says, softly. "I went to work for them after my husband died. My mother-in-law watched Bobby so I could go to work. Mr. McCracken bought me a car so I could drive Mrs. McCracken on her errands. She didn't drive and then one day, she asked me to teach her. Mr. McCracken was so angry when he found out. Mrs. McCracken didn't care. It was like she woke up one day and just didn't care anymore." Elsa stops to cough once more, breathes in and out. "Mr. and Mrs. McCracken were very good to me," she repeats. "I worked for them nearly thirty years. But I always knew something wasn't right. I could feel it. There was evil in that house."

Mrs. Matheson stops talking. Just stops.

"But what did you tell me?" I ask.

Mrs. Matheson closes her eyes. "I went to the market that morning. Mr. McCracken sent me for his cigarettes. He let me drive his new car. I wasn't gone more than half an hour. When I came back, I went looking for him. I found him in the library. He was just lying on the floor." Mrs. Matheson takes a breath. "And Mrs. McCracken was sitting on the couch, reading a book."

Dawn gasps.

"I screamed, 'Mrs. McCracken, did you call for the ambulance', and Mrs. McCracken said, 'as soon as I finish this chapter." Mrs. Matheson sighs. "I didn't tell."

I drop her hand. My blood runs cold. I don't know anything about my grandmother.

"I couldn't work for Mrs. McCracken anymore," Mrs. Matheson tells me. "But in my heart, I forgave her." She grabs my hand again. "You need to forgive her, too, Fay."

"I can't imagine I'm angry over that," I reply. I can't imagine my mother would be angry over her cruel father. I can't imagine she would miss him.

"Corinne…" Mrs. Matheson says. "You're angry about many things."

My mind feels like it is on fire. Mrs. Matheson's skin burns against my own. I wish Dawn wasn't lurking. I wish I'd never asked any questions. I wish I'd let well enough alone.

"But what about Margolo?" I ask Mrs. Matheson. It's too late now. Charge ahead. "What about Margolo's baby?"

Mrs. Matheson opens her eyes. The pale, pale blue eyes focus on me. "Margolo doesn't have a baby," she says.

"Margolo was pregnant."

Mrs. Matheson stares at me. "Margolo was never pregnant," she says.

"Yes, she was," I insist. "Do you remember a boy named Richard Spier?"

"Margolo had many boyfriends."

"Margolo was pregnant," I press on. I feel myself grow panicked. "She was sent away."

"Mrs. McCracken sent Corinne away. She never sent Margolo." Mrs. Matheson looks very tired. She watches me and suddenly, her eyes grow wide. "Who are you?" she demands. "Who let you in here?" She yanks her hand from mine.

"Come on, let's go," cries Dawn, grabbing my arm and pulling me from the room. We tear down the hallway, around the curves, around the walkers and wheelchairs, and through the front doors. We race down the steps. We don't stop until we reach the safety of the Corvette.

"That woman's crazy," gasps Dawn, collapsing against the hood of the Corvette.

I turn my back on Dawn, lean back against the hood myself. In the distance, I see Rachel Stern in the garden amongst a sea of wheelchairs, raising her arms in the air and flapping them down again. The gray-haired people in the wheelchairs follow her lead. "She isn't that crazy," I reply.

"She doesn't even know what year it is!" exclaims Dawn.

"Maybe not," I agree, still watching the group in the wheelchairs. "But she knows a heck of a lot more than we do."


	49. Chapter 49

"Your grandmother murdered your grandfather!" Dawn exclaims, as we burst through the door into my bedroom.

"Don't be ridiculous," I dismiss her. I turn the lock on the door. Marta was downstairs vacuuming the living room when we raced into the house and up the stairs. I lock the door to keep her out on the off chance that for the first time in years, she takes an interest in me. "She didn't _murder_ him. I think she just…let him die."

Dawn falls back onto the window seat. "We don't know that," she argues. "She may have poisoned him. Who knows what she has growing in the backyard."

"He had a heart attack," I reply. "Gran isn't…she isn't…pro-active enough to plan a murder. She's too…too…" I grasp for the word.

"Indifferent?" offers Dawn.

"Passive," I counter. I sit down at my desk and turn away from Dawn. "End of discussion," I tell her, jerking open the top desk drawer. I remove the spider web diagram, flatten it out on the desk top. I grab my pen. "Whatever she did or did not do to Grandfather is irrelevant. It's a red herring. Everything else Elsa Matheson said, that's what we need to focus on." I draw a line from Aunt Corinne's name and write "Fairfield" in capital letters. I circle it and circle it. "Gran sent Aunt Corinne away."

"You just don't want to admit that your grandmother could do something like that. You're in denial," Dawn says from the window seat. "It shouldn't surprise you. Mrs. McCracken's hardly perfect. We knew that. And honestly, I don't really blame her. Your grandfather was sick and twisted. We knew that, too. I'm more surprised that she didn't snap long before and off him."

"She didn't kill him," I reply, voice rising high. "Stop being stupid!"

"Okay, okay," Dawn says.

"Thank you." I return to my diagram.

"Tell me why you don't think she murdered him," Dawn prompts.

"I don't have to tell you," I answer. It doesn't seem right to admit to anyone, even Dawn, that after thirty years my grandmother was so beaten down, she probably didn't have the strength to plan and execute a murder. I remember what my mother told me, how in time Gran stopped screaming when Grandfather hung her over the staircase railing. In time, she lost the will to fight.

"All right, fine, but you know, we're supposed to be partners. You shouldn't hold information back from me."

"I'm not," I insist, not looking at her. It's not really a lie. Maybe. "I reached my conclusion from a lifetime of experience with my grandmother."

"Really? Because until a few days ago, I don't think you knew too much about her."

I whirl around in my desk chair. "Stop trying to provoke me!" I snap.

"I'm not trying to provoke you! I'm trying to find out what you know!"

"I don't know anything! Didn't you just point that out?" I shoot back at her. "I don't know anything!" And with a quick sweep of my arm I knock everything off the desk – the diagram, the pen, the stapler, the pencil sharpener, everything that rested there.

"You're not angry with me. You're angry with your grandmother," Dawn informs me in a very calm matter-of-fact manner. "But that doesn't mean you should throw a tantrum like a spoiled brat."

I rise from the desk chair and storm into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. On the other side of the door, Dawn makes no sound, doesn't call out to calm or further goad me. I listen for her for a moment, but there is nothing. I stand before the mirror staring at myself – myself in a French braid and a navy dress and my silly garnet earrings. What am I all dressed up for? What? I take the garnet earrings from my ears and toss them onto the vanity. They clatter dully and rattle to a corner. I'm stupid. And silly. And I want to punch the mirror.

I don't.

I catch myself. I set myself right. Breathe in and out. Deep breaths. Push it down. Far, far so it won't come back up.

"My apologies," I say when I emerge from the bathroom. I reclaim my chair at the desk. Dawn's set everything back on it. I move my things to their correct spots. "And I forgive you, too," I tell her.

"Thanks," Dawn says a bit sarcastically, but doesn't put up a fight. I've defeated her. Sometimes it's easier to move past and on, to save it for another day.

"We need to focus on what's really important," I tell her, picking up my pen again. "Elsa Matheson said Aunt Margolo was never pregnant."

Dawn makes a soft snorting noise. "Frankly," Dawn begins from her spot at the window, "I doubt anything that woman said. She's crazy. In fact, I even doubt what she said about your grandmother. I thought about it while you were in the bathroom. I think Elsa Matheson's living in La La Land. She probably thinks Mickey Mouse is the President of the United States!"

"I believe her."

"Well, I don't. She thinks it's still 1960-something. She thought you were your mom getting ready to go to the prom! The woman's a nut."

I cluck my tongue. "I thought a former baby-sitter, do-gooder like you would have more compassion," I scold. "Besides, she's not _crazy_. She has dementia. But I think she remembers the past just fine."

"Well, she's not doing so hot with the present, what with all the invisible flowers and portraits," replies Dawn. She waits a beat. "Okay, that's kind of mean. I get that she can't help it, and it's sad, but I don't think she's reliable at all."

"She remembered that Aunt Corinne went to boarding school in Fairfield. That's true. We knew that already," I point out. "And she remembered the name of Mom's prom date."

"Are you sure?"

I hesitate. "All right, maybe I don't know that for sure, but I can find out easily enough. I'll ask Mom tonight."

"Those are two little, tiny details, even if she did get them right. We need to take anything she said with a giant, heaping shovel-full of salt."

I shrug. "Fine, but I think you want to discount her for a reason."

"No, I just don't want to waste time on a wild goose chase," says Dawn. She sighs. "Okay, let's change our theory then. Let's say Margolo was never pregnant. Who was?"

I shrug again.

Dawn exhales deeply. "All right, you're going to make me say it? Your mother."

"Absolutely not!"

"Why not? Because she's your mother? She's the most logical choice after Margolo. She was away at college, right? No one would have known."

"That's ridiculous! I've seen pictures of her during college. She wasn't pregnant," I tell Dawn. "Besides, she didn't even have a boyfriend."

"Oh, my God, Grace! You don't have to have a boyfriend to get pregnant! Just like you don't have to be married to get pregnant!"

"My mother is not a whore."

Dawn rolls her eyes. "Don't act so scandalized. Just because she got knocked up in college doesn't make her a whore. You're so puritanical. Okay, so, maybe she didn't have the baby. Maybe she had an abortion."

"My mother wouldn't do that."

"You seem to think the people in your family wouldn't do a lot of things."

I rise above and ignore the jab. "You're not thinking logically," I tell Dawn. "If my mother wanted an abortion, she would have found a way to have one on her own. She would never have gone to Gran. Gran is the last person she'd have asked for help."

"Maybe she wanted her attention."

"Maybe maybe maybe," I say, hotly, losing my newfound coolness. "It's not my mother. It's Aunt Margolo. I _know_ it. She's who fits. Just because Dr. Abbott turned Gran down doesn't mean she gave up. She found someone else. Aunt Margolo _was _pregnant, but Elsa Matheson never knew."

Dawn looks doubtful. "Maybe…" she says. "But where did she go afterward? She disappeared from the yearbook. Elsa Matheson said Margolo wasn't sent away. So, where was she?"

I shrug.

"What about your Aunt Corinne?"

"What about her?"

"Maybe it's her."

My jaw drops. "Gross! Dawn, she was eleven years old! That's sick!"

Dawn raises her shoulders. "Stranger things have happened. Your grandmother sent her away. That's how Mrs. Matheson put it. Was she sent away before or after Dr. Abbott wrote that letter?"

"I don't know! I'm not an expert on Aunt Corinne!"

"And there's another thing. If we're going to believe everything Mrs. Matheson said – " Dawn pauses to cock an eyebrow at me. "She said your mom has always blamed Corinne. Why? What does she blame her for?"

"I don't know," I say, honestly.

"Your mom's never mentioned any specific thing your aunt's done to piss her off?"

"Oh, well, of course. I mean, pretty much everything Aunt Corinne says or does pisses Mom off. If Aunt Corinne serves deviled eggs at Easter, it pisses Mom off because Aunt Corinne knows Mom hates relish. If Aunt Corinne mentions that she had an eye exam and has 20/20 vision, it pisses Mom off because Aunt Corinne knows Mom wears glasses. It's stupid stuff like that. It's petty."

Dawn's quiet for a while, rests her arms on her drawn knees. "That sounds like me and Mary Anne," she says.

"It doesn't have to be forever."

"How long have your mom and aunt been feuding?"

"Aunt Corinne's almost forty."

Dawn sighs.

I tap my pen on the desk. "We're going around in circles. We need a new plan."

"We haven't talked to your Aunt Corinne yet. Maybe we could ask her some things," suggests Dawn.

I snort. "Have you ever met my Aunt Corinne?"

"Sure. I mean, it's been awhile, but I'd know her if I saw her."

"Aunt Corinne wouldn't be any help, believe me. If you actually knew her, you'd know why."

Dawn sighs again. "Great. It's just our luck – the only person willing to talk to us is loony tunes."

I make a disapproving sound in my throat, but otherwise, let the comment pass. I have more pressing matters to deal with. "We need to be pro-active," I inform Dawn, opening my desk drawer again and removing the list I started at Argo's yesterday.

"What do you think we've been doing so far? Twiddling our thumbs?"

I ignore her, continuing on as if she never spoke. "There are things we've dismissed, things we can't dismiss anymore. I'm going to need you to do a couple things and you're going to need to do them by yourself."

I keep my back to Dawn, but still, I feel her eye me suspiciously. "What sort of things?" she asks, a bit warily.

"Don't sound so excited, Super Sleuth," I tell her, as I write on the binder paper, printing carefully, adding on. "I'm sending you on a solo mission."

"Are you my commanding officer now?"

"Yes," I reply and turn in my chair to face her. "First of all, we need to settle the matter of Aunt Margolo's ring. Why does your mother have it? We should have asked ages ago. I don't know why you haven't asked her on your own."

Dawn shoots me a look. "Maybe because my mother won't even admit that she and your aunt were ever more than passing acquaintances. How am I supposed to get her to tell me where she got that ring?"

"You'll figure it out," I say, easily. "The second part of your mission is to speak to your grandmother."

"About the ring?"

"No." I cross my legs and fold my hands over my knee. I wait a beat. "We both have to admit that your grandmother's probably the sanest person tangled up in this mess. I want…I want you to ask her about my grandmother."

Dawn cocks an eyebrow at me. She waits.

"That day we went into the attic, later, you told me that your grandmother warned you about my grandmother. That she said not to cross her. Did she say anything else?"

Dawn shakes her head.

"And you've made comments before about things your grandmother has said – that my grandmother's odd and…what else?"

"That it's not always easy being her friend," Dawn supplies. She looks at me with uncertainty. "What exactly do you want me to ask her?"

I regard Dawn, thinking, although I already know – have known since we ran from Elsa Matheson's room, have probably known for a long, long time – much longer than I care to admit. "I want you to ask why we shouldn't cross my grandmother. Your grandmother wouldn't pull something like that out of thin air. She knows something. Something must have happened. And you're going to find out what it was."

Dawn looks at me, doubtfully. "How?"

I shrug. "Just ask."

The doubt does not leave Dawn's face. "And what will you be doing while I'm running these interrogations?"

"I'm going to find out how accurate Elsa Matheson's memory is."

Dawn sits a little straighter, the doubt on her face mixing with surprise. She cocks that eyebrow again. "How?" she asks.

"I'm going to ask my mother."

"You seem to have this all worked out," Dawn comments.

"I told you, we need a new plan. This is the new plan."

"So, what, we're just going to point blank start asking people these questions?"

"Of course not. We already know that doesn't work." I turn back to the desk and my list. I begin making notes. "At least not with _most_ questions. We've wasted enough time already. I want answers."

I glance back at Dawn and she's smirking slightly. "You're so impatient," she tells me.

"I think I've been infinitely patient, thank you."

"Well, for you, maybe."

I narrow my eyes and return to my list. I write: _What does Mom blame Aunt Corinne for? _I pause, tapping my pen against my teeth. After considering it, I write: _Why was Aunt Corinne sent away? _I straighten and regard my list. These may be pieces of a separate mystery, or they may be all the same, the same pieces and players all tangled up within one other. I'll add it all, write it all down, and weed it out later.

Dawn comes over to the desk and picks up the spider web diagram. "It's getting a little messy," she remarks, studying the paper.

"I'll fix it later," I reply. "When we have some answers."

Dawn snorts. "All we have are questions."

"Well, then, I guess you better go get us some answers."


	50. Chapter 50

Sharon picks Dawn up on her way home from work. I wave to Dawn from the front porch. Sharon flicks her wrist in my direction, once, then backs out of the driveway. She's never liked me. I watch them disappear down Locust, then turn and return to my empty house.

I find Mom's photo albums and settle on the couch with them. I flip the pages carefully, searching for Mom's senior prom photos. The photos are toward the end of the album and Mom smiles at me from them – that younger, happier Mom I've never known. I recognize Gran's house by the sweeping staircase in the background, although the room itself is decorated much differently than I know it. In the photographs, Mom's hair hangs long and loose over her shoulders, curling in soft waves. She wears a pale green dress that rises just above her knees and a darker green sash encircles her torso, tying in a bow below her breasts. There's an enormous white rose corsage on her left wrist. Her date's face has been burned with a cigarette.

There's no writing on the page to identify him. I peel one of the pictures from the album page, flip it over, and all that's written on the back – in a girlish version of Mom's handwriting – is the name "Fay" and the date. She erased him completely, whoever he is.

Sighing, I toss the album underneath the coffee table. I drum my fingers on my knee, thinking. What to do, what to do. Where do I go from here?

I rise and go upstairs. I change into my school swimsuit and brush out my hair. The answering machine blinks on my nightstand, signaling a new message. I ignore it. I figure it's Gran.

I dive into the swimming pool, shoot through its length, tuck and roll, push off again. I swim at an alarming speed with strength I didn't realize I still had. And all the while I'm making plans.

I'm in the living room watching television when my parents clatter in at seven-thirty. I hear my mother first, of course, speaking in her loudest of voices, "I told you so, Harold," she says from the kitchen.

"Yes, I know, Fay. You've told me twenty times since leaving the office," comes Dad's tart reply. I glance toward the kitchen in interest. So rarely does my father's voice possess any kind of sharpness, especially directed at my mother. Dad comes out of the kitchen. He's wearing a dark suit, but has already removed his tie and unfastened the top buttons of his shirt. He wears a deep frown.

"Well, it bears repeating," says Mom, following him into the living room. "Alla has completely screwed you over this time."

"Can we drop the subject?" Dad asks, depositing his briefcase in the office. "Good evening, Grace."

"We both know what you need to do first thing in the morning," Mom continues. She steamrolls on. "Fire Alla. It's the only possible solution. Fire her and then tell them it was all her fault."

"She didn't do it on purpose."

"And that's even worse! It proves she's completely incompetent. Which, I might add, I've been telling you for years. It's time for you to fire her. It's long past due."

Dad comes out of the office. He has his gin and tonic in hand. Of course. "How do you expect me to run the department without Alla?" Dad asks, but doesn't wait for an answer. "Drop it, Fay. I'm going upstairs to take a shower." Dad starts toward the stairs. "Good evening, Grace," he says, apparently forgetting that he's already greeted me.

"Well, then, you can look forward to getting screamed at tomorrow. Don't expect me to help you!" Mom calls after him.

I watch him climb the stairs, then look back at my mother. She watches his retreat, too, briefcase still in hand, laptop bag still slung over her shoulder. She lets out an exasperated sigh and rolls her eyes. She strides into the office and dumps her things on her desk. I listen to her rattle bottles as she makes her drink. She comes out of the office with the glass pressed to her lips.

"Hello, Grace," she says, sounding like her normal self.

"What happened?" I ask.

Mom rolls her eyes again. "Stupid Alla being stupid," she replies.

"Is Dad in trouble?"

Mom waves her hand, dismissively. "He'll get screamed at for a few hours tomorrow, but he'll be fine. Don't worry about it, Grace." Mom turns away from me and walks over to the downstairs answering machine. She hits the play button. There are two messages from telemarketers and then the living room fills with the voice of Mrs. Mason, Cokie's mother. "Hello, Fay? This is Ginny Mason. Listen, this Saturday, Dot Wallingford and I are taking Joy Riverson out to lunch for her birthday and we – "

Mom hits the delete button before the message finishes.

Mom makes no comment as she heads back into the office to refill her drink. Secretly, I am pleased. Mom shouldn't get Mrs. Mason if I don't get Cokie. When Mom comes out of the office again she's shed her suit jacket. She doesn't seem too concerned about Dad, so I decide not to worry.

"What did you do today, Grace?" Mom asks and sips her drink.

_I found out your mother watched your father die. _

I shrug.

"You didn't do _anything_?" Mom asks.

"No."

"How thrilling. Perhaps, I should start leaving you with a list of chores. You could clean out the basement."

"We don't have a basement."

"You could dig one."

I eye my mother. She's in a good mood. A weird mood, but a good one nonetheless. I can put my new plan into action.

"I want to ask you something," I tell her and lean forward to grab the photo album from underneath the coffee table.

Mom looks at me curiously, if a bit apprehensively. I don't blame her. I have asked a lot of questions lately. But she walks toward me, slowly, bringing her drink with her, and sinks down onto the couch beside me. "This is mine," she says when she sees what I have open on my lap. She sets her drink on the coffee table. "I didn't know you still looked at this. You looked at it all the time when you were a little girl."

"I have a question," I say when I find the prom pictures again.

"Oh, my God," Mom curses and then laughs. "Look how young I am!" she exclaims. She pulls the album a little closer to her. "I must say, I was a knock out. Sue and I found that dress downtown at Bellair's, except it wasn't called Bellair's back then. It was something else. I loved that dress."

I wrinkle my nose.

"What's that look?" Mom laughs. "It was very fashionable back then. Of course, this _was _the Dark Ages."

"What happened to that ugly dress?"

Mom scoffs. "Margolo wanted it, so I took it to Smith with me. I wasn't going to let her fat ass stretch out _my_ prom dress. I lost track of it at some point. I don't know, I probably gave it to a thrift store or something."

I look at Mom in surprise. She hardly ever willingly mentions Aunt Margolo. "You should have just let her have it then. If you were just going to give it away," I point out.

"Well, I wanted it at the time. Besides, it was _mine._ Margolo was always in my room, stealing my stuff. She couldn't have my prom dress, too." Mom turns the page to a photo taken at the prom. She's being crowned Prom Queen. There's a delicate diamond tiara nestled in her red hair, a bouquet of roses in her arms. Her date still doesn't have a face.

"Is this what you wanted to ask? About the dress? Did you want to borrow it?" Mom laughs again.

"No," I reply. Like I would _ever_ be caught dead in that ugly thing. "I think I have another question – like, why does your date have a cigarette burn for a face?"

Mom screws up her face and leans back into the couch. She very much resembles a sulky teenager.

"Why did you burn his face?"

"Because he was a jerk," Mom replies.

I flip back several pages in the photo album. I find the Homecoming pictures. Mom's on the football field in another green dress – this one a deep forest green with long sleeves and a full skirt. She wears a crown with another bouquet of roses in her arms. She smiles brilliantly, her right arm lifted in a wave. The football player at her side has no face.

"He was a jerk then, too?" I ask her.

Mom finally sits up straight. She looks down at the Homecoming pictures, wrinkling her nose. "Yes, actually, he was. But I burned all the pictures at the same time. I did it after the prom."

"You ruined the pictures!"

"No, I improved them."

I look at Mom. I wait.

She turns the pages back to the prom pictures. She doesn't say anything.

"Who is he?" I finally ask. I need to know his name.

"Ted Kilbourne."

It's the name Elsa Matheson gave me. It's a name I've heard before, I am sure, but I had forgotten.

There is nothing wrong with Elsa Matheson's memory.

"Are you going to tell me why you felt the need to burn his face with a cigarette?"

"I told you, he was a jerk," Mom answers, still gazing at her pictures, at her past self. She touches their edges lightly with her fingers. "After the prom, he tried to take my dress off in his car. I was the Prom Queen! I wasn't going to screw some guy in the backseat of a Cadillac!" Mom cries, indignantly. "So, I beat him up."

"You beat him up?" I repeat.

"Yes!" Mom replies with the same indignation. "We had been dating all year. It was the prom, we were about to graduate. I'd had enough. So, I beat him up." Mom looks down at the album again, pursing her lips. "And I mean, I _really _beat him up. I had to drive him to the hospital afterward. His parents were furious. They thought I'd rendered him sterile."

"You're making this up," I tell her.

"I am not! You can ask your grandmother! She got an earful from his parents about it. Like she cared." Mom rolls her eyes. "Ted was _so_ dumb. I think he took one too many blows to the head during football practice." Mom shuts the album and tosses it on the coffee table. She leans back and props her black and gray-checkered stilettos on the tabe.

I regard my mother. In her gray dress and stilettos, I can't imagine her ever beating anyone up. She looks so professional, so corporate. But I know better. I remember how she went after Bryce.

"You dated this person all senior year?" I ask Mom.

"Yes."

"Why would you date a dumb person for a whole year?"

I catch something in my mother's face that I rarely see. Embarrassment. It's vague, but it's there, flushing her cheeks slightly, pinking them slightly beneath the blush. "Oh, well…" she says, at a loss, another rarity for my mother. "Well…" she says again, fumbling for her words. "I don't think I care to talk about it."

I give my mother an exasperated look.

"Oh, all right," she relents with a sigh. "When Russ Black dumped me, I was very upset. He was my first real boyfriend and I thought I was in love with him. I was seventeen and very melodramatic. Russ dumped me for another girl, a _cheerleader_," Mom says, edgily. "Russ hated Ted, so I thought I could make him jealous. Plus, he dumped me for Ted's little sister."

"I guess it didn't work."

"No, it didn't," Mom says, bitterly. "Russ dated me for six months, he dated her for six _years._ He didn't care what I did. He was never in love with me. I was never really in love with him either. I was seventeen, I didn't know anything about love."

"Then why did you keep dating Ted?" I ask. "Your plan didn't work."

That flush returns to her cheeks, that embarrassment. It's almost unsettling. But I think I like it, as much as it unsettles me, this realness in my mother. "Well…" says Mom. "It didn't work with Russ, but…it had other benefits." Mom stops and glances at me. "You have to remember that I was seventeen."

"You've mentioned that a few times."

Mom regards me, pursing her lips into a thin line. She relents again. "Your grandmother hated Ted. _Hated _ him. She would actually leave the room when he came over. If he walked into the living room, she would go to a completely different floor. Absolutely hated him."

"So, you dated him to piss Gran off?"

"Well, I was only seventeen," Mom reminds me, yet again. "And my entire life, your grandmother had never taken any interest in anything I did. And then, all of a sudden, I was getting a reaction. You know how she is, how she wanders around with the personality of a slug. Well, she wasn't very slug-like when it came to Ted. In seventeen years, we'd never fought because she couldn't bother to rise to the occasion. But Ted made her irate. She wanted me to break it off. We got into epic shouting matches about him. I told you, I was very melodramatic. I loved it."

"The two of you fight all the time now."

"I'm not seventeen anymore."

"So, that's it? You wasted your senior year dating someone you couldn't stand just because Gran also couldn't stand him? Mom, that's the stupidest thing I ever heard!"

"You can see why I've never told you that story," Mom replies. She reaches for her glass and takes a mighty drink. She almost drains it. She's going to be done with me soon, so she can pour another. "And need I remind you that we all do stupid things when we're teenagers."

Mom doesn't need to give me any sort of look for me to get her meaning. I've done a whole laundry list of stupid things.

I don't think about that.

"What did Gran find so offensive about him?" I ask Mom. It doesn't sound like Gran to become that irate over someone just because he's a jerk and kind of dumb. Of course, I don't really know Gran. I realize that. I realize it with a sinking feeling in my stomach. I cannot predict anything about her.

"He reminded her of your grandfather," Mom answers and drains the glass.

I look at Mom in surprise. "Really? Was he like Grandfather?"

"No," Mom scoffs. "I don't know what she was talking about. Ted was an idiot, but he was hardly anything like my father. And my father was a lot of things, but he wasn't an idiot. Your grandmother was a few cards short of a full deck even back then." Mom stands and leaves me. She goes to the office for another drink.

I wish she wouldn't run away from me. She's always running. It's nice to sit on the couch with my mother and talk. It's nice when she's candid.

But she always ends it.

Mom returns with her freshened drink and glances at her wristwatch. "It's after eight o' clock!" she exclaims, more to herself than to me. She casts a look up the stairs. "I suppose Hal has no intention of coming back down! He can pout all he likes. He knows I'm right." Mom takes a drink. "Did you eat already?"

"Hours ago, Mom."

"Hm," says Mom and she wanders into the kitchen.

I follow her. That's what I do best.

But I'm tracking her with a purpose now.

Mom stands at the refrigerator with the freezer door wide open, rifling through the many appetizing microwave dinners that crowd the shelves. Mom selects one and rips the box open. I take a pineapple soda from the refrigerator and sit down at the table while watching Mom stab the plastic cover on her dinner. She tosses the plate into the microwave and punches a couple buttons. I sip my soda while the dinner turns in the microwave.

Mom brings her dinner to the table and sits across from me. Meatloaf with mashed potatoes and green beans. Disgusting. I sip my soda again.

"I don't know how you can drink that stuff." Mom comments with a nod toward my soda.

"I don't know how you can drink _that_ stuff," I counter with a nod toward her rum.

Mom gives me an odd look, then turns her attention to her delicious meal. She stirs her mashed potatoes then takes a small bite. "I hope you don't want to talk about Ted Kilbourne anymore," she says once she's swallowed.

"I don't. He doesn't sound that interesting."

"He wasn't. And it took me four years at Smith to recover from him." Mom spears a green bean, pops it in her mouth, and chews. She goes for another one. "And it's not because I became a lesbian like I'm certain your grandmother's told you."

"She mentioned it."

Mom rolls her eyes and mutters something that sounds like "crazy".

I watch Mom cut into the meatloaf. She takes a couple bites. She washes it down with rum. She seems to be in a fair mood still, even after the lesbian comment. I watch her awhile longer. Then I plunge in.

"Were you ever pregnant before me?"

Mom chokes on her meatloaf. She beats her fist against her chest and coughs. She sputters and coughs and I watch her. She hits her chest again and grabs her glass. She drinks and coughs again.

"_What_?" she cries.

I don't reply.

She sits back in her chair and stares at me. "_What_ has your grandmother been telling you about me?" she demands.

"She hasn't told me anything."

Mom continues to stare at me, incredulously. "Grace, I don't know where you come up with this stuff," she finally says. "_No_, I'd never been pregnant before. I'm sorry to break it to you, Grace, but you are very much an only child. Why would you ask me such a thing?"

I shrug.

Mom looks at me like I've just sprouted a second head. "You watch too many soap operas, Grace," Mom informs me. She rises from the table and throws her dinner in the trashcan. "I don't know what your grandmother's told you, but I didn't spend my youth whoring around. Although, I'd rather not discuss my sexual history with you."

I wrinkle my nose. "I'd rather you not either," I say. "And it was just a question."

Mom returns to the table for her drink. There are a few drips left. "Perhaps next time you could wait until I've swallowed before springing a question on me."

"All right," I agree. I wait for her to swallow the drips. "Was Aunt Margolo ever pregnant?"

Mom stares at me like a third head just emerged from the second. "What?" she asks.

"I waited for you to swallow," I point out.

"Grace, I have no idea what you're talking about. Are you on drugs?"

"No, I'm not on drugs!"

"Well, then who's filling your head with this nonsense? Who told you that Margolo was pregnant?"

"No one. I have a mind of my own, you know."

"Yes, I know and I think it's been addled by too much sun and too much _General__ Hospital__._"

"You didn't answer my question. Was she?"

"No!" Mom replies, still looking at me like I'm psychotic.

"How can you be certain? You were away at school."

"I think I would have noticed if Margolo was pregnant," Mom informs me. "Or at least, someone else would have pointed it out." Mom watches me a moment. "I don't know what's going on here," she says. "But I think I can guess. And I don't want you hanging around your grandmother's house anymore. She's purposely filling your head with nonsense. I've dealt with her crap my entire life. I don't need her making up lies about me." Mom pauses, waiting for me to react. I don't. "I'm going upstairs to check on Hal," she tells me and moves toward the door. It swings open and she charges through it, calling back, "And I was _not_ a slut!"

I watch Mom's retreat until the door shuts behind her. I turn back to the table and run a finger along the rim of my pineapple soda. I think. I think a long time. And I decide whether or not to believe.


	51. Chapter 51

_Author's Note: Greetings to those who are still following this story. I have finished writing "My Mother's Daughter" and will be posting the remaining chapters in quick succession. I apologize for how long it's taken for me to complete this story. I never intended to take so long, but I promise that the end is near. Thank you for your patience and please continue to have patience through the following chapters as I promise answers are coming - I just take the long way getting there. _

_- Celica_

_

* * *

_

I don't see Dawn for a couple days.

She had no life when we met a few weeks ago, and now suddenly, she has a life that goes on without me. On Tuesday, the day after our visit to Elsa Matheson, Dawn's mother takes the day off work to drive Jeff and his friends to a big water park up near New Haven. Dawn tags along. On Wednesday, she goes sailing with Abby and Kristy and their SDS friends. I stay home and try not to be lonely.

I begin screening my calls again. Mari calls twice Tuesday morning and once Wednesday evening. By Wednesday, her voice rings into the answering machine with irritation and annoyance. I ignore her, still smarting from the perceived slight suggested by Dawn. Perhaps she chose me for the wrong reasons and now, she can pursue me. I let the phone ring on.

Gran leaves me alone on Tuesday and I suspect, with a twinge of disappointment, that she's given up on me already, so very easily. But she calls Wednesday afternoon right before _General Hospital _starts. I leave the room while she speaks to the answering machine, but when I come back, I play her message three times, listening to the cadence of her voice, its smooth familiarity, and knowing that I know nothing about my grandmother. It makes me sad and angry and eventually, I walk away. There is no one to tell me how to feel.

Stacey and Mary Anne never call. Presumably, they have written me off. Blacked out my name. Forgotten me. I miss Emily and Julie in the span of those two days very much.

I wake in the early morning hours on Thursday before the sun has risen. I roll over to check the time. It's a little before five-thirty. I tumble out of bed, regain my legs, and go into the bathroom. When I come out, I slip out into the darkened hallway and begin downstairs, headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. My throat is dry and scratchy, probably from the ceiling fan and the air conditioner running all night.

There are lights on downstairs. I hear my parents clattering around in the kitchen. I glance at the clock as I cross through the living room. They're running late for the six o' clock train.

I'm about to push through the kitchen door and point out their impending tardiness when I hear my father say, "I'm concerned about Grace."

I stop dead in my tracks, hands poised to push open the door. I catch my breath in my chest and tilt my head against the wooden door and listen.

"I told you, Harold, I took care of it," comes Mom's reply.

"You didn't take care of anything," Dad challenges, which surprises me almost as much as the fact that he's apparently concerned about me.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mom demands. There's a sharp clinking that follows, like a spoon hitting against a ceramic bowl. They're eating breakfast together at the table. I didn't know they did that. It seems too normal for them, to sit together at the kitchen table eating cereal and drinking coffee. "We had a very nice talk. I took care of things."

I wrinkle my nose in confusion. What does she think she's taken care of? We haven't spoken much in the last two days. They came in quite late the last two nights and neither had much to say. They downed their drinks, ate their Lean Cuisines, and headed up to bed. Mom cast several suspicious looks in my direction, but nothing more. Does she mean Monday night? What else could she mean?

"That's what you always say, Fay. Honestly, I don't know what you say to her, but it doesn't really seem to help."

"If I'm such a failure as a mother, then maybe _you_ should talk to her, Harold," Mom replies, her voice edgy and cold.

"_Me_? What am I supposed to say to a teenage girl?"

"I thought you would know, Hal, since apparently, you know _everything._"

"There's no need to get snippy, Fay. I'm trying to have a serious conversation about our daughter."

"All right, what do you think is wrong with her? _I _don't think there's anything wrong with her. Please, enlighten me."

"You never take me seriously when I want to – " Dad stops and there's a short silence, then he starts again, apparently deciding to abandon that particular argument. "I think Grace has become increasingly odd since the summer began," he tells Mom.

I narrow my eyes at the doorframe. I am _not_ odd.

Mom laughs. She actually laughs. "Odd? She isn't _odd_, Harold. She's a teenage girl! This is how teenage girls behave. Like complete lunatics. If you had spent any time with teenage girls when you were a teenage boy, maybe you would know what to expect. And I mean, girls other than your fat high school girlfriend who let you put your hands up her skirt."

I might vomit.

"We've actually been quite lucky with Grace," Mom continues. "Aside from throwing rackets at tennis tournaments, she isn't nearly as prone to histrionics and dramatic meltdowns as I was at her age. I did dumb things much more frequently than Grace."

"Stealing dogs and running your underwear up flagpoles far pale in comparison to driving cars into people and things," Dad snaps and I'm surprised at the anger in his voice.

There's a long pause and I can almost hear Mom suck the air in between her teeth, although maybe I imagine it. Finally, Mom says, "That was Sue's underwear, not mine." I suspect she's purposely trying to upset Dad, needle him, see how far she can push. We're alike in that. "Grace makes bad choices. The only thing wrong with her is the people she chooses to hang around. She follows them into trouble."

"Grace isn't an imbecile."

"No, but she's quite gullible," Mom says with a conviction that wounds me deep. I flush red hot from far within.

Dad doesn't argue, which makes me even more furious with him. Odd and gullible. How nice to know what he thinks of me.

"She's a strange girl," Dad says, plunging the knife further. And twisting it. "I told you from the beginning, I didn't want her hanging around your mother."

"This again? I told you, I took care of it," scoffs Mom, sounding completely unconcerned with the unfounded accusations Dad has made about me. "I told Grace, she's not allowed over there anymore."

"You're the only person in this house who thinks Grace actually obeys your rules."

"Of course she does," Mom snaps. "I told her to not go over there. She'll listen."

Of course I'll listen. I am stupid and gullible after all.

"I didn't want her over there in the first place."

"What did you expect me to do? Chain her to the bedpost? Rehire Nanny Catherine? She's too old for a baby-sitter. I can't watch her every minute of every day any more than you can."

"Allison is deranged."

"That's a bit harsh, Hal," says Mom.

"Nevertheless."

"Well, she won't be filling Grace's head with nonsense any longer. I put an end to that."

"I don't think you've listened to a word I've said, my dear."

"I always listen to you, Hal."

Dad's response is muffled behind the door, though I strain to hear it. It's getting harder to eavesdrop as their voices have reverted to a more normal volume. Fortunately, for my mother, a normal volume is louder than most.

"Perhaps you should call her up and tell her that," Mom suggests, answering whatever Dad said that I missed.

"I have no interest in speaking to Allison."

"Why not? She likes _you. _I think she has a crush on you."

"Not while I'm eating, my dear."

Mom chuckles, forgetting their tense words, forgetting the terrible things they've said about me. These things they think they know about me are all wrong.

"We're going to miss the train, my dear," Dad says and I hear him push back his chair, the wooden legs scraping against the linoleum. His bowl and coffee mug clatter in the sink.

"That train is never on time," replies Mom, her own chair scraping against the floor. They move on so easily from me.

I duck through the nearest doorway, which leads to the dining room. But my parents don't come through the kitchen door. After a minute or so, I hear the garage door open and close. They are gone into the dawn.

I retreat to the stairs. I can't climb upward. I sit down, fold my arms over my knees. I would like to cry, but cannot.

I go to Gran's after lunch.

I don't call first. I show up unexpected, always a gamble with my grandmother. It's strange to not have her greet me on the front steps. I knock on the front door, wait a few seconds, and when I don't hear the sound of her footfalls, lean on the doorbell. I stop after four chimes and wait. When she doesn't come, I press the bell twice more. It's too late in the day for her to be in the backyard. I begin to worry when I finally hear footsteps crossing the foyer.

Gran opens the front door and her eyebrows arch in surprise. "Grace!" she exclaims, a bit breathlessly. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Am I disturbing you?" I ask. After all, I never know what I'm going to get with Gran.

"Of course not," Gran replies, stepping aside to hold the door open for me. "Come in. Have you been out here long? I was upstairs and didn't hear the bell."

I step inside and can now hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner running upstairs. "Are you vacuuming?" I ask Gran. She's done stranger things.

"No. That's Brigitta."

"Oh."

Gran shuts the door behind me and then slides her hands into the front pockets of her white slacks. She has on a white shirt with thin horizontal navy stripes, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She looks like she's ready for a day of sailing, not for simply sitting around the house, doing whatever it is she does all day, reading dusty old books and thinking about all her past sins. Gran smiles slightly, the corners of her mouth inching upward, but never quite reaching her eyes.

"This is a surprise," Gran says. I know she knows I've been avoiding her. I've never gone so long without coming over or calling, not since I entered my post-Cokie life. Not even after she threw me down the stairs. "Would you like something to drink, Grace?" Gran offers, not knowing what else to do with me.

"No thanks." I should have thought of what to say, of how to break the ice. I am useless in these things.

"Would you like to see what I've done outside?" Gran asks and charges out of the foyer, leading me to the back of the house.

I don't know what else to say or do, so I follow her. We step out onto the patio and Gran leads me across the freshly mown grass to a corner behind the swimming pool. There are two young trees still sitting in their buckets atop a cleared section of the flowerbed, the dirt neatly smooth around them.

"Crape myrtles," Gran tells me. "Dr. Gates gave them to me. He's digging up his backyard and putting in some kind of pond. He asked if I would like anything and I took the trees. He tried to give me some rose bushes, but you know how I feel about rose bushes. I had to move the rhododendron and I'll eventually clear some more space when the trees begin to grow. I'll put the purple one here and then I'll dig out that birch back there and replace it with the white one. I've done my best, but that birch is a losing battle. What do you think?"

I think she could have planted these trees and I never would have noticed the difference. But she watches me, waiting for my reaction, waiting for me to care. "I like the purple one," I tell her, lamely, and it's true. The flowers are a rich, deep purple and very pretty. "You picked a good spot," I add just as lamely. "You aren't going to plant them yourself, right?"

"Of course not. Felipe is coming tomorrow to do it," Gran replies. Felipe is the man who mows her lawn. "And I didn't dig out the rhododendron either. I'd be laid up in bed for a week if I tried to do that."

"Okay, okay."

"I'm not foolish," Gran says and slides her hands back inside her pockets. "You should have come by a littler earlier," she tells me. "You missed Corinne."

"Aunt Corinne was here?" I ask. I haven't seen Aunt Corinne since before I left for Fiji. I'm sure she's still ticked off about the phone call from my mother.

"Yes, she stopped by to return the leaf blower Cullen borrowed. She had the children with her, but left them in the car. She knows how I feel about children running around my house. I went out to the car though and gave Amber her birthday check. She seemed pleased."

I forgot about my cousin Amber's birthday.

"Corinne mentioned that you have yet to RSVP to Amber's birthday party. She thinks it's a bit rude," Gran informs me. When I open my mouth to protest, Gran says, "Don't worry. I never respond to the invitations I receive either." Gran wipes her brow with the back of her hand. "I'm melting. July is an evil month." And with that Gran heads across the lawn again.

Inside, Brigitta's still vacuuming upstairs, the sound drifting down the steps. Gran tells me to wait in the living room, so I sit down on the pristine white couch, stiff beneath me, and wait, looking about the room. Gran returns with two tall glasses of iced tea, hands a glass to me, and then takes a seat on the couch, leaving a large space between us. She takes a small sip and then sets her glass on a coaster on the coffee table. I copy her.

"Grace, dear," Gran starts, "have I done something to offend you?"

I glance at her in surprise. I am not surprised that she wondered, but surprised that she asked.

"What could you have done to offend me?" I answer.

Gran hesitates and I know that's exactly what she has pondered for the last week.

What am I to say? That I read the letter from Dr. Abbott? That I visited Elsa Matheson? That I know she watched my grandfather die? That I know she is a hypocrite and a liar? She is a sinner. She is who they tell us at church to watch out for.

It would be easy if I could just ask about the letter. It would be easy if I thought she would give me anything. I can understand about my grandfather. I probably would have waited and read a book, too.

Gran waits for me, hands resting on the knees of her white slacks. Her carrot-colored hair cascades over her shoulders. She is the same on the outside. I wonder how she looks on the inside.

Sullied like me.

"I've been so busy," I lie. "And you told me to get a life."

"Don't put words in my mouth," Gran replies. She leans forward for her glass. She takes a drink. She doesn't press the issue further. If she suspects anything, she'd rather not know.

"How is Aunt Corinne?" I ask.

"Corinne? She's fine. She brought me a new photograph today." Gran stands and crosses to the mantle, removing a dark wood-framed photo from its place in front of Aunt Margolo's graduation picture. Gran brings the photo to me and I accept it. It's a family portrait. Aunt Corinne and Uncle Cullen have one taken every year. My parents and I have never taken a family portrait, at least not with a professional photographer at a studio. Mom says family portraits are silly and awkward.

Aunt Corinne's dressed in a beige suit, the lights of the studio picking up the natural highlights in her short hair, making it appear much redder than it is in life. She smiles for the camera, corners of her mouth turned upward, showing no teeth. Aunt Corinne usually looks quite pleased with herself. Mom would be pleased to know, if I were speaking to her, that Aunt Corinne's gained a few pounds. Uncle Cullen's beside her, his dark hair longer than Aunt Corinne likes, flashing a very bright, white smile for the camera. He has a prominent chin that my mother calls "frightening". My little cousins mostly resemble Uncle Cullen without a hint of red in their dark hair, although my cousin Troy has Aunt Corinne's old ears. They all have Uncle Cullen's chin.

"In August, Corinne and Cullen are going on a cruise with a couple from their church," Gran says, hovering beside the couch. "They're going to the Bahamas."

I've been to the Bahamas. "Are the kids staying with you?" I ask Gran. Aunt Corinne doesn't believe in nannies.

"Heavens no!" Gran exclaims. "Corinne knows better than to ask. Cullen's mother is coming from Fairfield."

"Aunt Corinne's ears still stick out," I tell Gran, handing back the picture. I hold my own grudge against Aunt Corinne that flares up sporadically. She never should have told me that my parents didn't want me.

Gran peers down at the picture. "I should hope not," she says, somewhat indignantly. "Ian paid a lot of money to have them fixed."

Gran places the frame back on the mantle, again crowding out Aunt Margolo. Gran doesn't seem to notice. She returns to the couch, unbothered, and reclaims her seat. I continue looking behind me, at the mantle and the shelves beside it, neatly cluttered with picture frames. I see what always should have been obvious to me, but only jumps out now as my eyes sweep over the faces, some faded, some new.

"You don't have any photos of Grandfather," I observe.

"I know what Ian looked like," Gran responds, flatly.

I turn back to her. I recognize my opening and charge through.

"What happened to all his pictures?"

"I put them away somewhere. I suppose I could look for them if you want to see them."

"No, no, that's okay." I've seen pictures of him before. There are some in my mother's photo album and more on the walls at Aunt Corinne's.

"What did you do when Grandfather died?"

"I hired a decorator and bought a car," Gran promptly replies.

"What? No, I mean, what did you do when he _died_. He died here, right? He had a heart attack?" I ask, feigning stupidity.

Gran regards me, blankly. "Why would you want to know that?" she asks.

I shrug. "I'm wondering what it's like to be in an emergency. I don't know what I'd do. I'm curious," I lie. Then I add, "I think I would be useless."

Gran still stares at me with that blank expression on her face. I wonder what she's thinking. I can never guess.

"Ian had just returned from a tennis match at the club," Gran answers in a measured tone. "He had a heart attack in the library. It wasn't a shock. He smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish. It's a miracle he lived as long as he did." Gran pauses. Everything about her has gone flat. "Elsa called the ambulance. There was no point. Ian was dead. Some of the neighbors came rushing over like it was some sort of crisis – Charles and Rita, and Will O'Hare from next door. Such a fuss over nothing."

"Well, he was _dead._"

"Everyone dies. There's not anything special or noteworthy about it."

Gran fainted when she found Aunt Margolo. There's something noteworthy about that.

"When I finished speaking with the paramedics, I called Cullen at his office and told him to tell Corinne – "

"You didn't call Aunt Corinne yourself?" I ask. I would never forgive my mother if she delegated that to someone else.

"No. I was in no mood for hysterics," Gran replies and surprisingly, continues on, for once not so reluctant to speak up. Perhaps, she takes delight in it, remembering that my grandfather is dead, remembering how it all unfolded after she watched him die. "Then I called Fay and asked her when she could come."

"You called Mom?" I ask, which surprises me more than anything else. Gran calls me. Sometimes she calls my father. She doesn't call Mom. "Not Dad?"

"Why would I have called Harold? Fay wasn't going to have a breakdown over Ian. They barely spoke."

"And then what happened?"

"Fay took the train in and we buried Ian," Gran replies. "Then I hired a decorator and bought a car."

"What about Elsa?"

"She retired. We've been over this before."

"Do you ever visit her?"

"No, I do not. She's lost her mind and I don't care to see her like that." Gran crosses her legs and folds her hands over her knee. "You are the nosiest girl."

"Curious," I correct.

Gran shrugs. "Curious, nosy. It's the same difference."

"I thought elderly people _liked_ talking about the olden days," I reply. My father's Aunt Muriel in Maine never shuts up about the past.

Gran snorts. "I'd hardly describe myself as _elderly_," she informs me.

While seventy-two isn't as old as eighty-two or ninety-two, it's still…_old. _Although Gran's aging quite gracefully thanks to the subtle work she's had done around her eyes and under her chin. Her face is smooth and younger than her years, but still, she _is_ old_._

"You don't look elderly," I tell her.

"I shouldn't," she says and a hand flutters to her neck, pressing against the tight skin. Then it floats back down to her knee. "Dr. Irving is a miracle worker, much better than any Manhattan doctor. But he'll be long dead before you ever need him, Grace, dear. You'll stay young and beautiful like Fay. I doubt Dr. Irving could do anything about your forehead though."

My jaw drops slightly.

Gran picks up her iced tea and takes a sip. "Would you like a cookie, Grace?" she asks me. "Brigitta bought some at a bakery in New Hope."

"No, I don't want a cookie."

"Maybe later," Gran says and smiles vaguely. "Would you like to work on your summer reading? What book are you reading now?"

"_The Portrait of Dorian Gray_. And I don't need any help. It's dumb, but I think I get what's going on."

"I think you mean _The Picture of Dorian Gray_."

I shrug.

"And it's not dumb at all! It's wonderful! I have a copy in the library, of course. I could read the book again and we can discuss it when you're finished. In fact, I believe I have an annotated copy in the library. I can show it to you…" Gran leaps up and dashes toward the library. Not so old, maybe. She returns a minute or so later with a paperback book in her hands. "There's a very interesting analysis at the end of the book that you may find helpful," Gran tells me, sinking onto the couch beside me.

"Can you see all right?" I ask her. "My enormous forehead isn't blocking the light?"

"No, I can see just fine," Gran answers. "Look here…"

I don't care about the stupid book.

"Do you like my father?" I ask Gran.

"I have no problem with Harold," Gran replies, not taking her eyes off the book.

"But you like him better than my mother?"

"What does that have to do with Oscar Wilde?"

"Who?"

"The book, Grace."

She only cares about books.

I slump back against the couch cushions.

"Sit up straight," Gran orders. Then she slaps my bare thigh.

"Why are you hitting me?" I demand, crossly.

"Because you're slouching. It's what I did to Margolo," Gran explains and slaps my thigh again.

"And you thought that would help?"

"Sit up straight, please."

Grudgingly, I pull myself up. I don't want her to slap me again. Her palm stings red on my white thigh already.

"Are you interested in this book or not?" Gran asks.

"No."

Gran gingerly places the book on the coffee table. "Maybe later," she says. She sits back, but doesn't move away from me on the couch, doesn't open up the space. She recrosses her legs and refolds her hands and regards me with that blank expression.

"Don't you want to know why I asked about my father?"

"You'll tell me if you want to tell me," Gran replies.

Of course.

"Dad thinks I'm weird."

"Harold told you that you're weird?"

"Not exactly. I overheard him tell Mom."

"You were eavesdropping."

"No," I answer, tartly. "Do you think I'm weird?"

"I think all teenagers are weird," says Gran. "But you're not any weirder than the rest. You ask a lot of questions though. Have you been asking Harold questions?"

"No," I say. It never occurred to me that I should ask him anything. Maybe he knows things. But he'd just rat me out to Mom if I asked.

"Have you done anything particularly bothersome to make him say that?"

"No," I say, which isn't exactly the truth. I just figure Dad doesn't pay attention. "I haven't done anything."

"Hm."

"He said I'm strange and odd and gullible. I'm _not_ gullible." And he called Gran deranged and I have to wonder why.

"You must have done something for Harold to say that. It isn't like him to toss around unfounded accusations," Gran tells me, even though she should be on my side.

It's true, though, that my father is usually quite fair. It makes me wonder about Gran even more.

"Was Mom weird when she was my age?"

Gran rolls her eyes dramatically.

I don't know if that's meant to be an answer.

"Did Mom ever steal a dog?" I try again.

"Fay doesn't like dogs," Gran replies. Gran turns around on the couch. "Speaking of which…where is Penelope?" Gran asks, more to herself than to me. She snaps her fingers. "I locked her in the closet." Gran rises and leaves the room.

"The _closet_!" I call after her.

I hear a door open at the back of the house, followed by a long string of sharp yips, and Gran's raised voice shouting, "Down, Penelope! Down!" then the back door opens and closes. Gran returns, brushing off her white pants. She opens her mouth to speak.

"I know," I interrupt before she can begin. "You don't know why Aunt Corinne thought you needed a dog."

"She meant well, I suppose," Gran says and sits down, leaving space between us. "It's almost time for _General Hospital._"

I'd forgotten about _General Hospital. _Usually, in the summertime, I watch almost every day at Gran's and during the school year she tapes it for me. I haven't watched much this summer. It hasn't seemed very important.

Gran picks up the remote and turns on the television. The television is already set to ABC. Gran hardly ever watches television, except for those boring stations like the travel channel or something. She'd never watched a soap opera before I started coming around.

"I don't know what's happening," I inform Gran.

"I'll fill you in," she promises.

I sit back and watch. Gran speaks over much of the dialogue, but I am lost regardless. Afterward, Gran makes me go into the kitchen where she feeds me cookies and lemonade. She rambles on about books. Then I watch from the back door as she follows the pool guy around the swimming pool, pointing things out to him and shaking her head. I have never seen her use the pool.

When it's time for me to leave, Gran walks me to the front door. "I'm glad you stopped by, Grace, dear," she tells me. "Will you be over tomorrow?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"I'll watch for you," Gran says, placing a hand on the small of my back. She turns her head and lightly presses her lips against my right temple.

Sometimes she acts so much like a grandmother that I am almost fooled.

I return home to a silent house. The light flashes on my answering machine. Mari has abandoned hope, written me off. Dad has left two messages and Mom one in between his, wondering where I am and how my day is going. I slam a finger on the delete button. Then Dawn's voice streams from the machine, telling me to call at once - she too has spent the day with her grandmother.


	52. Chapter 52

Dawn arrives at my front door fifteen minutes later. I'm waiting on the porch when she rides up and tosses Mary Anne's bicycle aside on the grass. It says a lot for me, for my eagerness, because I loathe waiting. Dawn bounds up the steps, her Birkenstocks slapping against the concrete.

"Hey!" she greets me, grinning. She's gotten very tan.

"Hi," I reply, sliding off the porch railing. I hold the front door open for her. "Want something to drink?" I ask, following her inside.

"Sure. Got any juice?"

"Probably not. I don't think Marta went to the supermarket today." I lead her into the kitchen and search through the refrigerator. I drank the last of the orange juice this morning. "Here's a Snapple," I say, pulling the bottle from the back of the refrigerator.

Dawn takes it and reads the nutrition label. She shrugs and unscrews the lid. I grab a pineapple soda and pop the tab. "Let's go upstairs," I suggest, glancing at the clock. Four o' clock. I wonder what time my parents will wander in tonight. Catching me with Dawn would infuriate my mother and prove my father right. I decide not to care.

I shut my bedroom door behind us. I don't know if Marta's been by yet. Sometimes she sneaks in and surprises me.

Dawn settles onto the window seat with her Snapple, kicking off her Birkenstocks. She flips her long hair back over her shoulder. It looks blonder now against her tan. I start to pull out the desk chair, but change my mind and sit on the bed, pulling my legs up so I sit Indian-style. I balance the cold soda can on my bare knee.

"What have you been up to?" Dawn asks. She takes a sip from her bottle.

I shrug. Nothing of much importance.

"You should have come to the water park," Dawn tells me. She did invite me. I outgrew water parks in middle school. Those are for children. "Well, it was a blast," Dawn says. She didn't invite me sailing with Kristy and Abby. She knows better than that.

"It looks like you forgot your sunscreen," I say.

"Yes, but I remembered my tanning oil," Dawn replies and laughs when I roll my eyes. "You could do with a little color yourself."

"Perhaps. However, I could do without the accompanying skin cancer."

Dawn laughs again. "You're a trip," she says and stretches out her legs. "Kristy was asking about you," she shifts the subject.

I don't allow my face to reveal my surprise.

"Why?" I ask.

Dawn shrugs. "I don't know. She wanted to know why I was hanging out with you." Dawn glances over at me. "I mean, no offense."

"I get it. I'm vile."

"I wouldn't use the word _vile_," replies Dawn. "Anyway, Kristy wanted to know if you were…nicer now. I told her that you're cool."

"Of course I'm cool." Everyone knows that. I drive a Corvette.

"She was just curious."

"I can sleep easier tonight knowing Kristy Thomas thinks I'm cool."

"Well, I don't know that _Kristy _thinks you're cool," corrects Dawn.

"I don't care what Kristy Thomas thinks," I say. I don't want to talk about Kristy Thomas. I'd prefer to forget her and Abby Stevenson and everyone tangled up with them. "What did your grandmother say?"

"Plenty," Dawn replies. "Have you found anything out?"

"I asked first."

"I know, but I'm exercising your patience."

"You're _trying_ my patience," I correct.

"No, I'm exercising it. It needs practice. So, have you found anything out?"

I consider being difficult, but that won't get us anywhere. I let Dawn win. "I asked my mother if she had a pregnancy before me."

Dawn's eyes sort of bug out. "You _did_?" she gasps. "Talk about being blunt. What did she _say_?"

"She seemed genuinely surprised," I answer. I consider what else I can say. "She said no. I _told_ you it wasn't my mother." I don't mention the overheard conversation from this morning. That is for only me.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

"Then I asked if Aunt Margolo was ever pregnant."

"You aren't playing around. And?"

"She looked at me like I was completely insane. Whatever happened, whatever went on, I think she was totally in the dark. I told you before - she was away at 3333333333Smith. I don't think she had any idea what was happening in Stoneybrook. I don't think she really cared."

"Your mother isn't so dense she'd miss a teen pregnancy."

"My mother isn't dense at all," I snap. "And we already established that no one _knew _Aunt Margolo was pregnant. Elsa Matheson confirmed that. And yes – " I start because Dawn opens her mouth to protest, to dismiss Elsa Matheson as crazy, "I asked my mother. The stuff Elsa Matheson said about my mother, about the prom and her date, all that was correct. You need to get over the fact that there isn't some love child of Mr. Spier and Aunt Margolo's running around Connecticut. Aunt Margolo had an abortion."

Dawn rolls her eyes. "This is a turnaround by the Queen Bee of First Methodist. So, you've accepted that your grandmother could orchestrate such a thing?"

"Grudgingly."

"I wouldn't expect anything less," says Dawn. "What else?"

I shrug. "That's it," I say. "Except my mother's convinced Gran's filling my head with this 'nonsense' so I'm not allowed over there anymore."

"Are you going to heed that rule?"

"Of course not," I scoff. "I visited Gran this afternoon. I asked about when my grandfather died. She was as unhelpful as always."

Dawn laughs.

"That's funny?"

Dawn laughs again. "No. Well, yes. I mean, you'll understand when I tell you about _my _conversation with _my_ grandmother."

"Will you tell me already?" I feel my patience has been exercised enough.

"No," Dawn answers. "Because first I want to tell you about a conversation with my mom. When I came back from sailing with Abby and Kristy yesterday, Mom told me to get ready because Richard was taking us out for pizza. Which was _so fun_, I might add." Dawn rolls her eyes. "Anyway, I went into Mom's room to borrow a pair of earrings. I was looking through her jewelry box and I saw your aunt's ring. Mom was in the bathroom getting dressed and I said, 'hey, Mom, where'd you get this ring?' and she came out of the bathroom and looked sort of surprised when she saw me with the ring. Her voice got really weird, kind of flustered, and she said she didn't remember." Dawn pauses to roll her eyes again. "So, I said, 'Why does it say 'For Margolo' on the band?'"

I chuckle.

Dawn smiles, slyly. "Right, I know?" she says. "And Mom just stared at me for a few seconds and then she said, 'oh, yeah…I bought that at a garage sale.'"

"My grandmother would _never_ have a garage sale!"

"I figured," says Dawn. "But I pretended like I believed her. I said, 'It's really pretty. Can I keep it?' and she said, 'No'. Just flat out. Didn't even think about it. She made me put it back. Then later, after we came back from Pizza Express and she and Richard were downstairs yelling at each other, I went into her room again. The ring was gone. She moved it." Dawn cocks an eyebrow at me. "Like I was going to come back and steal it!"

"Isn't that what you were doing?"

"Well, yeah, but it's still kind of insulting."

I twist the tab on my soda can. "Hm," I say, thinking. "Maybe your mom stole the ring."

Dawn shrugs. "Maybe," she agrees.

I raise my eyebrows at her.

"I'm _agreeing_ with you, why are you looking at me like that?" she demands. "I allow that it is a possibility. I'm sure Mom was plenty pissed off when her best friend got knocked up by her boyfriend. I can excuse a little petty thievery."

"I suppose she wouldn't admit to stealing it," I say, snapping off the tab. I toss it into the wastebasket. "All right, what else do you have?"

"This is like a debriefing," comments Dawn. "I saw your grandmother this morning, too," she tells me, switching to the new line of topic effortlessly. "It was really perfect timing. Granny and Pop-Pop took me out to breakfast and when we got back to their house, we were getting out of the car and there was your grandmother, walking down the street with that annoying dog of hers. She ignored us, so I guess she was in one of _those_ moods. But anyway, when Granny and I went inside, I said, 'What's the deal with Mrs. McCracken?'"

"What's the _deal_ with her?" I repeat.

Dawn waves me off. "Can I finish please?" she asks. "And Granny said, 'what do you mean?' and I said, 'is she kind of crazy?'" Dawn pauses and waits for me to yell at her.

"You asked me to let you finish," I point out.

"Thank you," replies Dawn. "So, I asked if your grandmother is crazy and Granny looked at me awhile and then asked, 'what did Allison say to you?' and I told her nothing, that I just think your grandmother's a great big weirdo. Then I reminded her that she once warned me not to cross your grandmother. I asked her why she said that. Granny looked at me again and then asked, 'did you upset Allison?' and I said no that really I just want to know why not to cross her for future reference. And Granny didn't really look like she believed me, but she said, 'honestly, Dawn, it was so long ago…' and then she stopped and made me promise to not repeat anything to you or your grandmother. Granny doesn't want any hurt feelings."

"You can hurt my feelings all you like," I tell her. She certainly is dragging it out long enough. "You _are_ going to tell me, right?"

"I promised I wouldn't, but obviously, I rushed right over."

"Carry on then."

Dawn smiles, slightly, then turns serious, back to the task at hand. "So, I lied to Granny and promised not to tell. Granny was very reluctant about the whole thing. I think she felt like a gossip. Granny said again that it was very long ago and she can't recall _exactly_ what happened. But it was when Mom and your aunt were in high school and there was a beauty pageant at that racist country club of theirs, Miss Greenvale or something." Dawn stops to roll her eyes. "Beauty pageants are so sexist and out-dated."

"It was the sixties, get over it."

"Stop interrupting," Dawn snaps. "Anyway…where was I? Granny couldn't remember exactly what was said, just that there was some…unpleasantness. That's the word Granny used. She said it was quite shocking and no one looked at your grandmother the same way again. She wasn't exactly popular to begin with, Granny said, and had always been pretty unfriendly. She became the club pariah, Granny said, and stopped coming to the club altogether. Granny said that for several years a lot of people called her the Dragon Lady." Dawn pauses to frown at me, sort of apologetically. "It was so long ago, though, Granny thinks everyone else has forgotten it ever happened, but she also thinks the only reason your grandmother continues her membership at the club is out of spite."

"That's it?" I ask Dawn. "But what did she _do_? Did she stuff the ballot box? Did she dump pig's blood on someone's head?"

"I don't think she _did_ anything. From the way Granny talked, it sounded like she said something – or maybe she did do something – really nasty to your aunt. I mean, it's not that hard to believe. We've both seen her lose her temper."

I shift uncomfortably on the bed. "Yeah…" I agree. "But it's rather anti-climatic."

Dawn sort of purses her lips and beats the Snapple bottle against the palm of her hand.

"What?" I ask. "Are you holding out on me?"

"No!" Dawn cries. She purses her lips again. "It's nothing important. It's just…something else Granny said. About your grandmother." Dawn waits a beat. "Granny said…she said she never imagined your grandmother could be so wicked and that she's spent the last thirty years avoiding bringing that out in her again."

"Oh," I say. Over the last few years, I've thought Mrs. Porter behaved a little oddly around Gran. I assumed Mrs. Porter was the weird one.

"I'm sorry," Dawn says and holds out her hands, like she's offering up nothing. "It doesn't really help us. It's rather disappointing." Dawn sighs.

"Words can be more powerful than any terrible thing a person can actually do," I point out. I think of Aunt Corinne telling me that my parents never wanted me. I think of my mother saying I'm gullible. I think of my father calling me a weirdo freak. I remember Gran in the attic.

"I guess," Dawn agrees. She looks disappointed. I am and I am not. I'm sort of relieved more than anything that my grandmother doesn't have some vicious act to add to her newfound list of sins.

"That's all then?"

Dawn shrugs again. "About that, basically. Granny did some backpedaling then. Like I said, I think she felt like a gossip. She just said that she likes your grandmother and that Mrs. McCracken's always been a very conscientious neighbor. She said that in the fifty years they've lived on Bertrand, she and Pop-Pop have never had better neighbors than the McCrackens." Dawn gives me a half-smile. "So, I said, 'was Mr. McCracken crazy, too?'"

I smile back approvingly, even though she just implied – once more – that Gran is crazy. Which she isn't.

"Granny said no, that he was pretty nice and he was really popular around town and at the country club. Granny thought he was a bit _too _nice. It figures Granny could see through his act. He sounds like a complete asshole. Then Granny said that your grandparents never seemed to like each other very much and when your grandfather died, your grandmother actually seemed happy about it. Which I'm sure she _was._ Granny said she went to see Mrs. McCracken after the funeral and your grandmother had already boxed up all your grandfather's things and she and your mother were hauling it all out to the driveway. The Goodwill truck came the next morning. Granny thought it was appalling."

"I don't."

"Me either," Dawn says. "She said she wasn't so surprised by your grandmother, who'd been acting like the Merry Widow of Stoneybrook since the ambulance arrived, but she was by your mother. She said your grandfather adored your mother and spoiled her rotten. He bragged about her all the time – she was so smart, she was so athletic, she could do anything. He called her something – his bright star or his shooting star. Granny couldn't remember."

"That's news to me," I say. "She never talks about him. She told me he used to beat Gran."

Dawn shrugs. "That doesn't mean he didn't like _her_. And I wouldn't be too crazy about a man who hit and humiliated my mother either. No matter how I felt about her," Dawn points out. "So, I figured I was on a roll, so I asked about Aunt Margolo. Granny didn't want to talk about her though. She said the whole thing was too sad." Dawn sighs. "I pressed a little, asked why she and Mom stopped being friends. Granny _claims_ she doesn't know. I asked why Mom denies having been her best friend. Granny said Mom has unresolved guilt, but again, _claims_ she doesn't know why." Dawn rolls her eyes. "Granny did say she always felt sorry for Margolo. Your mother was your grandfather's favorite, Corinne was your grandmother's favorite, and Margolo was everyone's whipping boy. I don't know what that means."

"It means that when anything went wrong, everyone blamed Aunt Margolo."

"Oh. Huh," says Dawn. "Granny shut me down after that. She didn't want to talk about your family anymore."

"Thanks for trying," I tell her, even though now all we have are more questions. There are never enough answers. "Maybe next you can ask your grandfather how Aunt Margolo got his gun."

Dawn makes a face. "You have to bring that up?" she asks, like she hasn't just told me a hundred horrible things about _my_ family. "You read the article in the newspaper. He doesn't know. I did ask him, after Granny clammed up, if he thinks your grandmother's crazy and he said yes. He said she once ran across the street to yell at him for using the wrong kind of fertilizer on his rose bushes."

I roll my eyes. "Do you think that after today you could stop tossing around the word 'crazy' in reference to my grandmother?"

"Sure, but it's part of my interview technique."

"Find a new technique."

Dawn raises her shoulders. "Okay," she says. "What are we supposed to do next? We keep running into dead ends. Who do we question now?"

I shrug. "Your stepdad?" I suggest.

"No way!" Dawn exclaims. "What would I say? 'Pardon me, Richard, had any illegitimate children lately?'"

"Aunt Margolo had an abortion. We've established that."

"Maybe _you_ have, not me," argues Dawn. She shakes her Snapple bottle, the remaining liquid sloshing up and down. She thinks. "Your dad?"

"No," I reply, flatly. I'm not speaking to him.

"How about those friends of your mom's? Erica's mom and that other lady?"

I wrinkle my nose. "I can't stand Katie Shea. She's such a snoot. I bet her mom's just like her. And Mrs. Blumberg, she'd probably call up my mom and tell her that we're snooping around. They're still friendly," I tell Dawn. I remember when I was little, before I started kindergarten, on the weekends, my mother and I would sometimes walk to the playground at Stoneybrook Elementary to meet Erica and her mother. Or we would drive to Bradford Court, where Erica used to live, in the Toyota my mother used to drive before she drove it into a telephone pole. And Cokie, Erica, Lauren Hoffman, and I were a group for a while in kindergarten and first grade until Emily Bernstein tattled on us to her mother (for painting her hair or hiding her lunch or something silly like that) and Mrs. Bernstein telephoned Mrs. Blumberg and gave her an earful. Mrs. Blumberg was furious. Erica wouldn't even look at Cokie and me after that, let alone play with us. And even though she and Mrs. Blumberg weren't really friends anymore, my mother seemed disappointed that Erica and I weren't either.

"Would you just call your Aunt Corinne already?"

"Absolutely not."

Dawn starts to laugh. "I just remembered, Granny _did_ say something else. She said that for years she thought your Aunt Corinne was mentally handicapped."

"Aunt Corinne is _not_ mentally handicapped," I snap.

Dawn continues to laugh. "Well, yeah, Granny knows that _now_. I'm just saying."

"Why is that funny?" I demand.

Dawn stops laughing. "I don't know. I guess it's not," she says.

I draw my mouth into a thin line and don't say anything.

"Now you're going to be like that?" Dawn chides me. She doesn't seem apologetic. "You aren't in a very happy mood," she observes. "Is something bothering you?"

I raise my eyebrows at her.

Dawn sweeps an arm through the air. "Besides everything I just told you."

"No."

"Sure?"

"Everything's fine."

"You're difficult," says Dawn.

I don't know what I'm supposed to say to that.

Dawn watches me a moment, then says, "Where do you think they did illegal abortions in the sixties?"

"You're on board with that theory now?"

"I didn't say that. I'm brainstorming."

I shrug. "I can find out," I tell her.

Dawn cocks an eyebrow at me. "Really? You?"

"I'll take care of it," I promise.

Dawn looks a bit perplexed. "You're telling me everything, right? You're not holding out on me?"

"Of course not. We're partners. I'll tell you everything."

Dawn nods. "Okay. Ditto."

"You're not going to make me pinky swear, right?"

Dawn chuckles.

"That just seems very baby-sitters club to me."

Dawn grins and chuckles again. "Do you want to go swimming?" she asks.

"I don't feel like swimming."

"Oh. Do you want to go downtown then? We could go to Argo's or Uncle Ed's. I won't make you go to the Rosebud."

"I don't feel like going out."

Dawn tilts her head. "Are you _sure _you're okay?" she asks.

"Certainly. I've just had a long day."

"I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset."

Dawn doesn't appear convinced. She continues to gaze at me with that same expression, sort of a mixture of bewilderment and concern. "We haven't really been able to hang out the last few days," she says. "Maybe we can do something tomorrow?"

"Of course," I agree. I turn myself on and smile. I don't want her to think I'm jealous – jealous of her mother or her brother or Kristy or Heaven forbid, Abby Stevenson. "Gran wants me to come over tomorrow. I'm going to pump her for some more information. Gently," I tell Dawn. I consider it. "My mother, too, maybe. She's been acting kind of suspicious since I asked about the pregnancy thing. She doesn't want me seeing Gran anymore. She says Gran's filling my head with nonsense." I may ask Mom. It depends on if I decide to be mad at her when she comes home.

"Let's do something in the morning," suggests Dawn, brightening. "Pick me up at nine."

"_Nine_?" I repeat.

"Okay. Ten," Dawn relents. "Let's take the night to think about everything. By the morning, we each have to come up with one new theory. We'll share them over breakfast."

"I eat breakfast a lot earlier than ten o' clock," I inform her. I'm usually swimming laps at ten. I've already been out for my run.

"Grace…" Dawn says.

"All right, ten it is," I finally agree.

Dawn checks her watch. "I should go, I guess. I didn't leave a note for Mom and Richard. They're probably looking for me." Dawn stands and stretches.

I walk her downstairs to the front door. I follow her onto the porch. I'm sort of sorry that I'm running her out of here. Dawn picks up Mary Anne's tossed-aside bike and stands it up. She turns back to me.

"I think your mother's lying," she says.

"My mother doesn't lie to me."

Dawn regards me, then hops on Mary Anne's bike. She rides away with a wave. She turns left at the end of the driveway and heads down Locust Avenue. It's perfect timing. Just as she goes left, my parents' black Lexus turns the corner to my right.


	53. Chapter 53

I dash back inside the house and jump onto the couch, kicking off my sandals. I turn on the television. I switch to MTV. An old Insects music video starts just as the door from the garage bangs open and the clicking of my mother's stilettos sound across the kitchen floor. The kitchen door flies open and through they come, briefcases in hand, laptops slung over their shoulders.

"I'm fed up with that place," Dad is saying to Mom. "I'm telling you, the day I turn sixty, I'm retiring."

Mom clucks her tongue. "You said the same thing about turning fifty-five. And here you are, two years later, still working there."

"I mean it this time, Fay," Dad says.

I lower the volume on the television, sort of glad they're arguing again, sort of thinking it serves them right.

"I'm sick of it all," Dad continues, throwing his briefcase into the office. Actually _throwing _it. "I'm sick of the politics and the pettiness and the office gossip. I wish someone would torch the damn building."

"Did someone scream at Dad again?" I ask, hanging over the armrest of the couch.

"No," Mom chuckles, her green eyes lighting with amusement. "He has to play golf tomorrow and he's behaving like a child about it."

So, they're not fighting after all. I am mildly disappointed. However, I am just as mildly pleased that Dad's having a bad day.

"I _hate_ golf," Dad whines. He hates any sort of physical activity. He used to complain when I made him shag balls for me at the Stoneybrook Tennis Club. "Who decided that golf should be part of business transactions? Why can't we play cribbage or mahjong?"

"Sometimes I forget what a nerd you are," Mom tells him. "Don't be such a baby, Hal. When I have to play golf, you don't hear me moaning and groaning. I drag my clubs out of the closet and I play with a smile."

"That's because you're good at everything," Dad says.

"I know," Mom agrees. "But just because you can't tell your driver from a nine iron is no reason to throw a tantrum and quit your job."

"I'm not quitting. I'm retiring. In three years."

"The day you turn sixty, I heard," Mom says. "Why would you want to retire? I'm going to die in my office, at my desk, telephone in one hand, calculator in the other. Honestly, Hal, what would you _do_? You'd be bored out of your mind!"

"No, I wouldn't. I would sleep late and enjoy never having to attend another boring meeting. And never being forced to play golf again. I would play chess in the park and start collecting coins again."

Mom sighs. "You really _are_ a nerd," Mom tells him. "And what about me?" she demands. "Who is going to ride the train with me while you're sleeping in? I'll be raped and murdered at Grand Central while you're buying two-headed pennies at a junk shop!"

"And what park are you planning to play chess at?" I ask. "There's not a lot of chess play at Brenner's Field, Dad."

"I assumed we'd move back to Manhattan," Dad replies.

"Back to Manhattan!" Mom cries.

"I don't want to move to Manhattan!" I exclaim.

Dad looks at me. "Well, you wouldn't be going with us," he tells me.

My eyes widen. "What? You'd leave me here in Stoneybrook?" I demand.

"Of course not," Dad replies. "You'll be away at college. You can visit us in Manhattan just as easily as you could visit us in Stoneybrook," he explains. He turns to Mom. "I thought that was the plan. We moved to Stoneybrook because you didn't want to raise Grace in the city. When Grace leaves, why would we stay here? I'm tired of commuting. I'm fifty-seven years old. I'm too old for this."

Mom stares at him, mouth agape. "Well, this is news to me!" she says, testily. "I never said we'd move back to the city! We lived there for seven years. That was enough!"

"You're the one who wanted to move to Manhattan in the first place. That's why we left New Haven," Dad argues.

"And it was horrible!"

"It was not."

"What, so now I'm going to be raped and murdered in the backseat of a taxi cab instead of at Grand Central?"

"You're paranoid, Fay. You've worked in the city for twenty-five years and nothing bad has ever happened to you. We'll hire a car service."

"I'm not moving back to Manhattan."

"Don't you like Stoneybrook?" I ask Dad. I feel all the color has drained from my face. So, this is it? The last seventeen years has been some kind of intermission, an inconvenient interruption in his life? I am an inconvenience. When I am gone, they start their lives again, their real lives. When I am gone.

"Stoneybrook is fine," Dad says. He doesn't add on. Stoneybrook is _fine._ That's probably what he'd say about me. _Grace is fine, not fantastic, but she'll do. _Odd and strange and gullible and _fine._

I want to break a vase over his head.

"Well, _I _love Stoneybrook," says Mom. "I like our house. And our friends are here."

"We have friends in the city," Dad points out. "And I don't understand why you're both so upset. Grace has another year of high school left. We can discuss it next summer or fall."

"Why wait?" I ask, sitting back on the couch and crossing my legs. "Why not move now? I'll stay here, in this house by myself."

"Don't be ridiculous, Grace," says Dad.

"So, now I'm ridiculous?" I snap.

"Why are you angry?" Dad asks me.

"Because you're moving without me!"

"I know how you feel, Grace, he didn't ask for my input either," says Mom.

"Oh, good Lord!" cries Dad. "It's not as if I phoned up Lucy Kerner and put the house on the market without consulting you. You are the two most melodramatic women I have ever met in my entire life."

"I think Mom should throw her shoe at you again."

"That's enough, Grace," Dad tells me.

"Why are you snapping at her?" demands Mom. "You started this."

"Fay…" says Dad, clearly exasperated. But Mom doesn't back down. She folds her arms across the front of her black suit jacket and stares him down. Dad sighs and turns, heading for the stairs.

"And you're wrong, Hal," Mom calls after him. "Something bad did happen to me in the city. Remember the man who urinated on my shoes in the ladies room at Grand Central?"

"Why was there a man in the ladies room?" I ask.

"Because it's New York City," Mom says, flatly. She watches my father retreat up the stairs. Then she throws her hands in the air. "All because of a golf game!" she exclaims.

"The two of you fight a lot these days," I point out. I suppose I'm speaking to her after all. She doesn't think I'm odd or strange. She doesn't want to leave me behind.

"We do not," she argues. "I think Hal's going through male menopause. He's acting like a whiny little girl." Then she disappears into the office, taking her briefcase and laptop with her. She reappears quickly, shockingly without a drink in hand.

"You're really not going to move?" I ask her.

"Of course not," Mom replies without hesitation. "You know how your father gets. He's burnt out, that's all. He hates everything right now. He'll get over it." Mom bends her right leg and starts messing with her heel. She doesn't appear concerned about Dad.

If they moved back to Manhattan, I wouldn't have a home. I would visit and I would be visiting. I would be a guest in their lives. Maybe that's what I've always been. Maybe that's how Dad sees me. A guest just passing through.

I bite my lip and watch Mom fuss with her snakeskin stiletto. If they moved, I would never see my friends again, all the kids I've always known. What about Gran? I would leave them all behind just as my parents left me.

But my mother always gets her way.

"You promise?" I ask her.

"There's something wrong with these shoes," Mom says, absently, not listening to me. She glances up. "Did you say something, Grace?"

"No."

"These shoes are giving me blisters on the bottom of my feet," she tells me, still focused on her stilettos.

"Maybe your feet are too old and tired for them."

Mom looks up. She takes off the shoe. Then she removes the other one. "There's five hundred dollars down the drain," she says. She drops the green snakeskin stilettos in my lap. "Your feet are young and energetic," she tells me.

I hold up one of the stilettos. "Where am I supposed to wear this?" I demand.

Mom has started to move toward the kitchen. She glances over her shoulder. "Church," she replies.

Right.

"How am I supposed to walk in them?"

"Practice," Mom replies and pushes through the kitchen door. She comes right back. "Have you eaten?" she asks.

"Yes," I lie. I'm not hungry. The cookies and lemonade from Gran's slosh in my stomach, unsettled and undigested.

Mom waits a moment. "Well, are you coming into the kitchen?" she finally asks.

I feel that mild pleasure again. It's not a very nice pleasure. It feels a bit twisted.

"No," I tell her. I rise from the couch. "I'm going swimming," I say and hurry up the stairs, snakeskin stilettos dangling from my hands.

In my bedroom, I change into my plum-colored swimsuit. I toss the stilettos on the shoe rack in my closet. Then I retrieve a towel from the bathroom and head downstairs again. In the kitchen, my mother stands beside the microwave, watching her Lean Cuisine turn behind the glass. On the counter, there's a second tray, long slits cut along its cellophane, presumably for my father. My mother glances over her shoulder at me, standing in the kitchen in her stocking feet and black suit.

"Why are you home so early anyway?" I ask her.

"After Hal found out abut the golf game, we had to leave the building," she replies. "Is he coming back down?" she asks.

"I'm not his baby-sitter."

The microwave beeps and Mom removes her _delicious_ dinner and drops it on the counter top, steam rising through its slits. She throws in the second tray, pushes a couple buttons on the microwave, and then leaves the kitchen, muttering underneath her breath. I watch her go, then slip outside into the dusk, and leap feet first into the cool depths of the swimming pool. I glide through the water effortlessly, turning onto my back, pushing my legs back and forth, propelling myself down the length of the swimming pool. I stay underneath the water, staring up at the reflected light, the blurriness of the outside world through the surface of the water.

I resurface for air sporadically. I see my parents moving around the kitchen. My mother standing at the sink, twisting a corkscrew into a bottle of wine. My father taking the glasses out of the cabinet. Once I come up and my father's standing on the other side of the closed glass door, watching me, thinking horrible things about me, no doubt.

I climb out of the swimming pool when they've left the kitchen. I sit on the steps and wring out my long braid. I smell heavily of chlorine. It's a familiar, comforting smell. Inside the house, the telephone rings, the sound drifting out very faintly through a small crack in the kitchen window. The ringing ceases and I leave the pool edge, drying myself off with the towel. I squeeze the towel around my braid and then drape it across my shoulders. I go back inside.

When I come into the living room, I hear my mother talking on the phone in the office. I stop and listen, trying to determine if it's business or personal. She laughs. I peer around the doorway to see her sitting behind her desk, feet propped up, filing her nails, telephone receiver cradled between her ear and her shoulder. My father isn't in the office, isn't anywhere in sight.

I move back and flatten against the wall, away from the glass of the French doors. I listen to Mom laugh and talk and after a minute or so figure out she's on the phone with her cousin, Kathy, who lives in Lawrenceville. Kathy's a year or two older than Mom, the daughter of my grandfather's half-sister. She calls Mom every so often and she's the nearest to normal that anyone in our family gets. We used to see her on the holidays until the year Aunt Corinne threw the gravy boat at Mom and since then Kathy always has "other plans". Her daughter, Megan, is a couple years older than me and we used to be friends. I haven't heard from her since she went away to college.

I think Mom might say something interesting, something I can use, but she only prattles on about work, then there's a drawn out silence while she listens to Kathy. It's quite dull. I'm considering going upstairs when I hear my mother say, "No, I haven't spoken to Mom recently. You'll have to call and ask her." It's strange the casual tone she uses. It's strange to hear her say "Mom" when she always refers to Gran as _that woman_ or _your grandmother_ in that flat and heartless tone. And here she is, pretending to be all light and airy for Kathy. I realize I won't get anything useful out of this conversation. Mom pretends to Kathy.

And then Mom says, "Grace? Grace is a teenager," and then starts to laugh. She thinks I'm a joke.

Then Mom moves on and starts talking about seeing some guy at the train station, some guy Kathy used to date who either has scary gums or scary guns. It isn't interesting enough to stay for. I head upstairs. Mom doesn't even notice me pass by.

I return to my bedroom and peel off my swimsuit. I rinse it in the sink, wring it out, and lay it over the edge of the bathtub. I put on my pajamas and brush out my damp hair and twist it up, fastening it in place with a large barrette. I remove my copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ from the night table and flop on the bed. I thumb through the pages, past where I left off, checking to see if I can skip ahead without missing too much.

There's a knock on the open bedroom door. I look up. It's Dad.

"May I come in?" Dad asks. He's removed his coat and tie.

I shrug.

Dad enters my bedroom and walks toward me. He hesitates by the desk chair like he's considering sitting down, but instead comes around to stand beside the bed. He slides his hands into the front pockets of his slacks and tries to not look uncomfortable.

"What are you doing? Reading?" he asks.

"It's for school."

"I want to tell you, Grace, how pleased Fay and I am that you're taking your school work so seriously this summer."

"I have to do it sometime."

"We are impressed, nonetheless," he tells me. "We want you to do well. Senior year is very important."

"You said the same thing about Junior year."

"Every year is important, Grace. You need to work hard so you'll get into a good college."

"I don't like school," I say. I don't like reading books or memorizing dates or translating poems into French.

"It's different when you go to college," Dad promises me. "Why aren't you out with your friends?" he asks.

I shrug.

"Is something wrong?" he asks.

I shake my head. "No. I like to be at home." I don't reopen the subject of moving, even though I could. I'm exhausted by the thought of it.

"Are you fighting with your friends?" Dad continues. He isn't giving up.

"No," I answer, then realize I have to offer something more. "Emily and Julie are at camp. They're coming home on Saturday."

Dad regards me and rocks up on his toes.

"I called earlier," he finally says. "Were you out?"

"I went running and then I played tennis and swam laps," I reply. Actually, I didn't really play tennis. I hit a tennis ball against the side of the house like he explicitly told me not to.

"You did all that today?" Dad asks.

"Yes."

"I don't want you to get obsessive about exercise," he tells me.

"I'm not obsessive."

Dad watches me. "You and Fay have too much energy," he finally says. "Did you go to Allison's today?" he asks.

"I'm not allowed over there anymore. Mom said." I'm not giving him the satisfaction of the truth.

I expect him to argue, but he does not. I know he's suspicious. I know he knows.

I decide to take a leap.

"What do you think of Gran?" I ask him.

"My opinion of Allison is of no importance," he answers.

I have to physically press my teeth down on my tongue. I have to literally bite it.

He wasn't so not opinionated this morning.

I think of baiting him like I sometimes do my mother. I have to remind myself to keep my teeth firmly placed against the tip of my tongue.

"Has Allison said something that's made you uncomfortable?" Dad asks me.

"No."

"Because Fay thinks – "

"That she's filling my head with nonsense," I finish. "She isn't. All she talks about is books and flowers and _General Hospital_. What does Mom think she's saying to me?"

"Allison is complicated," Dad replies.

"So is Mom," I point out. "I wish they would stop fighting. It isn't fair to me."

"There are many things in life that are not fair, Grace."

"But why don't they like each other? Have they always been like this?" I ask Dad. I think about Gran telephoning my mother after my grandfather died and of Mom riding the train to Stoneybrook to be with her and of Mom helping Gran carry his things out of the house, stacking them on the curb for the Goodwill truck. It doesn't seem like something my mother would ever do, not my mother as I know her.

My father weighs his answer, considering and regarding me. Finally, he says, "Allison has become more difficult over the years. She used to be more…tolerant of Fay. She has been much less tolerant since Ian died."

"Why?"

My father lifts his shoulders. "That is a question for Allison. I am not an expert on your grandmother."

"But Aunt Corinne and Gran get along. They like each other."

"Corinne and Fay are different people. They want different things."

I don't understand.

"This isn't something you should worry over, Grace. How Fay and Corinne and Allison feel about each other doesn't affect how they feel about you. But if Corinne and Allison are saying things that upset you then – "

"I never see Aunt Corinne," I interrupt. "And Gran doesn't like to talk about Mom."

Dad smiles slightly, a sad little wisp of a smile. "Well, then," he says. "Even so…" his voice wanders off and the little smile disappears. "Is there something else bothering you then?" he asks me.

"There's nothing bothering me, Dad."

"If there's something wrong, I want you to tell me."

There are a million things wrong.

"There's nothing wrong, Dad."

I kind of wish I could spill myself to him, tell him of my suspicions and ask for confirmation. Anything my mother knows, my father knows, too. They tell each other everything. Even terrible things about me.

Instead, I gather myself up, push myself up from deep inside. I turn myself on. I beam for my father.

Dad returns to me with that sad little smile.

"Have a nice day tomorrow, Grace," he tells me. He starts toward the door. "I'm going to grab a shower and then head to bed. I have a big golf game in the morning."

"Good luck on the links, Dad." Then I call after him, "The driver's the long one!"

My father's footfalls sound down the hall until his bedroom door shuts behind him, leaving me sitting on my bed, holding my dumb book.

Downstairs, my mother's still laughing on the phone.


	54. Chapter 54

"Do you think I can order a salad this early?" Dawn asks, studying her menu. It's a quarter after ten and we're seated in a back booth at Thelma's Café.

I turn my menu toward her and point to the words at the top. "Lunch served after eleven," I inform her. I flip the menu back around and resume reading. "If you wanted lunch, why didn't you _say_ you wanted lunch?"

"Breakfast sounded appealing last night," Dawn replies and makes a face at her menu. She tosses it aside. "I'll have the fruit and yogurt, I guess."

"I could have gotten you a carton of yogurt from my refrigerator," I tell her. I wave over the waitress. "I'll have the short stack of pancakes and a coffee, please," I order when the waitress comes. "And my Californian friend would like some yogurt."

"Fruit and yogurt, fruit and yogurt," Dawn corrects. "And a glass of grapefruit juice."

"That's gross," I say when the waitress leaves.

"You're in a better mood today," says Dawn.

I shrug my shoulders.

"Shall we get down to business?" she asks me.

"I don't know – do you have a gavel to bang or something?"

Dawn picks up the salt and pepper shakers and bangs them against the table top. "Hear ye, hear ye…I hereby call this meeting of the…uh…Mystery People to order."

I start to laugh. "The Mystery People?" I repeat, still laughing.

"So, I'm not quick on my feet," she says and joins in, shoulders shaking as she giggles.

"Hey, maybe we could call ourselves the Mystery-sitters club," I suggest, which makes Dawn laugh even harder.

"That's so stupid," Dawn says through her giggles.

"Stupider than the Mystery People?"

Dawn has turned bright red by the time the waitress brings our drink order. The waitress eyes us, warily, probably because Dawn is starting to hiccup, which sends me into a fresh fit of laughter. I attempt to compose myself, but Dawn doesn't make it easy. The blonde of her hair is a startling contrast to the red of her face and she nearly lifts out of her seat with each hiccup.

"Hold your breath," I instruct. "You're embarrassing me."

Dawn takes a deep breath and holds it. She releases it with another giggle, but her hiccups seem to subside.

"It wasn't _that _funny," I tell her.

"It seemed pretty funny," says Dawn and drops a straw into her grapefruit juice.

I open two creamers and pour them into my coffee and follow with half a packet of Equal. I stir the coffee with my spoon and take a tentative sip. It's searing hot.

"Now _that's_ gross," Dawn informs me. "Coffee isn't good for you. It stunts your growth."

"Do you think I should be worried?" I ask, setting the cup down.

Dawn grins. "I guess not," she says.

The waitress brings our food and we fall into a short silence as I butter my pancakes and cover them in maple syrup. Across the table, Dawn mashes her fruit with her spoon and folds it into the yogurt.

"Did you ask your parents anything last night?" Dawn finally asks me.

"They weren't in very informative moods," I reply. I start to leave it at that, then add, "My dad was mad because he has to play golf today."

"I thought rich people liked to play golf," says Dawn.

I chew a bite of pancake. I don't think of us as "rich people". "My dad likes to play mahjong," I say.

"Is your dad an eighty-year-old woman?"

I chuckle. "No," I say. "But he doesn't like golf or tennis or anything too active."

"I thought rich people were all golf games and country clubs."

I frown at Dawn. "Well, my parents don't golf or belong to a country club," I inform her. "And it sounds really negative when you say that – _rich people_. We aren't rich."

Dawn cocks an eyebrow at me. "Sorry," she says. "But my grandparents play golf and belong to a country club and I think they're sort of rich. And Grace, you drive a _Corvette._ And Pop-Pop told me that your great-grandfather owned the entire town of Lawrenceville."

"Used to. That was a long time ago. He named Lawrenceville after his first wife. Her name was Vivian Lawrence and she was my grandfather's mother. She ran off with a stable hand and then died during childbirth in the basement of a boarding house in South Carolina."

"Wow, that's a beautiful story," says Dawn. "Your family is…like a living soap opera."

"Thank you so much."

"You're welcome," says Dawn. "Maybe next summer we can investigate a mystery from the Blume family tree."

"There isn't anything interesting about the Blumes," I tell her. "My dad's parents died when he was in college and then his brother died. And my Great Aunt Muriel runs a doily museum out of her house in Maine."

"Still…everyone has skeletons in their closets," says Dawn.

"Drunk skeletons maybe."

"Oh."

I push the remainder of the pancake around my plate, having suddenly lost the lightness from a moment ago. "This mystery isn't enough for you?" I ask her.

"Sorry, I was only joking around," she says.

"No, it's all right. Don't worry about it." I take a long drink of coffee.

Dawn watches me, then says, "A _doily_ museum? Really?"

I manage a smile. "She sews doilies on sweaters and sends me one every year for my birthday."

Dawn throws her head back and laughs.

"I'm serious."

Dawn quiets down and then sighs. "I talked to Richard," she says.

My eyes widen. "And you waited this long to tell me?" I demand. I kick her under the table.

"Ow! Now I'm not telling you what he said!" she exclaims.

I give her a look.

"Okay, okay," she relents. "It's not anything spectacular, I warn you. Leave it to Richard to manage to be boring even when embroiled in a scandal." Dawn rolls her eyes. "Last night, I told Richard that you and I were going out today and that we've been hanging out and stuff. Then I said that I heard he used to be friends with your aunt and he said that no, she was Mom's friend. So, I asked what she was like and Richard said he didn't remember. I wasn't getting anywhere, so I asked, 'was she anything like Grace?" and he said, 'I certainly hope not' and then he turned on the t.v."

I can't decide if I should be insulted or not.

"What does he mean he hopes not?" I demand.

"I guess he hopes you're not a tramp."

My jaw drops. "I am _not_ a tramp," I protest. "And he's one to talk."

"I guess he doesn't know what a prude you are," says Dawn. "And maybe that's not what he meant. Who knows with Richard. He's lame."

"I'm not a prude. I have morals and standards. There isn't anything wrong with that."

"If you say so," replies Dawn, dismissively. "Hey, weren't we each supposed to present a new theory? What did you come up with?"

I think a moment.

"I think your mother was the pregnant one," I inform Dawn.

Dawn stares at me. "Yeah, Grace, that makes a lot of sense," she says, dryly. "Why would your grandmother solicit an illegal abortion for my mother?"

"I don't know. You didn't say the theory had to make sense."

"My apologies, I thought that was self-explanatory. Do you want to hear mine?"

"I suppose."

"I don't actually have one right now…"

I turn around in the booth and signal the waitress. "Can we have our check?" I call out.

"Okay, okay, I just thought of one!" exclaims Dawn, slamming her hand on the table. "Your aunt gave my mom that ring to make amends for cheating with Richard, but my mom refused to forgive her, but still took the ring. Your aunt was wracked with guilt over her betrayal until she finally decided to commit suicide."

"I doubt Aunt Margolo killed herself over your mother. Your mom isn't that special."

"My mom is a wonderful woman," protests Dawn. "And obviously, your aunt had other emotional problems. She was a whipped boy."

"It's whipping boy."

"Whatever."

The waitress brings over the check and Dawn and I count out our money. Dawn pays entirely in quarters and dimes. I bite my tongue. I quickly down the rest of my coffee before sliding out of the booth. We step out into the bright day and glance up and down the street. We're tired of Aunt Margolo and Mr. Spier.

Dawn and I walk to Sound Ideas. Then we browse through the Merry-Go-Round. We walk down Essex and the door to the Bernstein's pharmacy is open. We hurry past without looking in. I remind Dawn that tomorrow Emily and Julie will be home. I feel a little bounce in my step when I say this, a little lightness in my feet. We walk to Bellair's and I don't see Stacey's car in the parking lot. I see Mrs. McGill's car, though, in its reserved parking spot. Dawn and I ride the escalator to the second floor. We're looking for a birthday present for my cousin Amber. I remember being eleven. Cokie and I were all about boys and clothes and make up. Aunt Corinne wouldn't approve of any of those things. I consider buying a cosmetics kit just to spite her, but knowing Aunt Corinne, she'd just throw it in the trash.

We take the escalator to the third floor. I purposely ignore the Kid Center as we step off the escalator, peeved that Stacey and Mary Anne have turned on me. But Dawn cranes her neck around, staring back at the Kid Center, searching, long after we've gone by. We go to the bookstore. We hang out at the magazines for a while, flipping through the glossy pages, and laughing at the models and article titles. Dawn receives a sharp look from the cashier for rubbing the perfume ads against her neck. I pretend to not know her.

I decide to buy Amber a book on horses. The last time I saw her all she talked about was her horse and competitive riding. Aunt Corinne won't object to a book. I pay for the book and then Dawn buys a vegetarian magazine, but thankfully, appears to have run out of dimes and quarters. Then we walk to the gift wrap department and after much deliberation I choose dark purple paper with large white stripes.

After Bellair's, we drive back to my house because Dawn wants to swim. Marta's in the foyer, on her hands and knees, scrubbing the tile. Dawn tries to talk to her, but Marta isn't interested. I'm already up the stairs by the time Dawn starts after me.

"Friendly," remarks Dawn, coming into my room.

"I know, right?" I say. I go into the bathroom to retrieve my swimsuit. "I don't know where my parents find these people. You should have met Nanny Catherine."

"Did you actually call her that? To her face?"

"I thought that was her name until I was eight," I reply, lifting my t-shirt over my head. "Did you bring your suit?"

Dawn lifts her own t-shirt to reveal a turquoise bikini top underneath. "I came prepared," she says. "What was it like having a nanny?"

"I don't know," I answer, slipping off my shorts. "I always had a nanny. Nanny Catherine came when I was, I don't know, four or five. There were a couple old ladies before her. I don't really remember them. Nanny Catherine was all right. She let me do what I wanted."

Dawn wanders over to my trophy case. I wiped down the glass shelves and polished the trophies last night before I went to bed. Marta vacuums and dusts and cleans my bathroom, but she won't touch my trophy case. She claims she doesn't have time to polish my "knick-knacks". Dawn picks up one of my trophies. "You won the fourth grade spelling bee?" she asks.

"I'm an excellent speller."

Dawn cocks that eyebrow at me. "Huh," she says and replaces the trophy. Then picks up another. "Do you keep _everything_?" she asks, holding up the short statue. "Second place in the sixth grade Halloween costume contest?"

"I was the girl from _Xanadu_. I mainly just wanted to wear roller skates to school."

"Okay, that's kind of awesome."

"I am awesome," I agree and snap the swimsuit strap behind my neck. "Cokie wouldn't speak to me for a week afterward. Her parents spent a small fortune on her Sleeping Beauty costume. I just wore my dance leotard and a lot of glitter."

Dawn returns the trophy to its place amongst my other awards and ribbons. "I think this is the first time I've heard you mention Cokie Mason," she comments.

"Is it?" I reply. I didn't mean to bring up Cokie. She slipped out. I try not to talk about her. I try not to think about her.

"Why aren't you friends anymore?" Dawn asks. "I remember you being so tightly wound around each other. Joined at the hip. Like Mary Anne and Stacey. Or Emily and Julie."

I don't say anything. I fold my clothes and set them neatly on the bed.

"It must have been some fight," Dawn pushes.

"We didn't have a fight," I finally say. "Cokie was a bad influence."

"I could have told you that back in middle school," says Dawn. "So, what, your parents won't let you hang out with her anymore?"

"It's really none of your business," I reply and go into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me.

"You're so prickly," I hear Dawn say through the door. "I'm going down to the pool. Bring me a towel."

I wait until I'm certain she's gone, then I leave the bathroom. I remember the towels. I wish she wouldn't talk about Cokie.

The message light flashes on my answering machine. The first is from my mother checking on me. What do they think I'm going to _do_ while they're at work? Honestly. The next message is from Gran. She says, "I thought you were coming over. I suppose you're busy. Call when you get in." The last message, surprisingly, is from Mari. Her voice is edgy and unnatural. She barks into the answering machine: "I don't know why you're ignoring my phone calls, but I want you to know that I don't care." Then she hangs up.

I delete the message with a smile.

Then I carry the towels downstairs to where Dawn waits for me in the swimming pool.

I drive to Gran's after dropping Dawn off.

Gran opens the front door as I climb the porch steps. "There you are," she says without a proper greeting. "You missed _General Hospital_."

"Dawn and I were swimming," I explain, sliding through the space she has left for me in the open doorway.

"I can see that," says Gran. "Don't worry. I taped the show."

I touch the end of my damp braid. I fixed my make up, but didn't bother to dry my hair. I wonder if it looks bad.

I follow Gran through the foyer. "What did you do today?" I ask her.

"Rita telephoned this morning and asked me to go to the nursery with her. Then we went to lunch," Gran answers.

"That's nice." Mrs. Porter must be feeling guilty for gossiping about Gran to Dawn. I don't think I like that – the idea that my grandmother is some sort of pity friend. "Guess who called Mom last night," I change the subject.

"The President of the United States," guesses Gran.

I pause. I'm uncertain if that's meant as a joke.

"No, he calls on Sunday nights," I finally respond. "No, Kathy."

"Kathy who?"

"Kathy Weatherby," I tell her. "She thinks she's getting engaged again." Mom told me that when she came in to say good night.

Gran turns away from the VCR. "That woman has had more fiancés than I have fingers and toes," she says.

"Does she ever call you?" I ask because I'd really like to know what Kathy asked Mom about Gran.

"Occasionally she calls and bothers me. I don't know why. She's Ian's niece, not mine."

"Well, I don't think she'd have much success calling him."

Gran looks up from the remote control she's aiming at the VCR. "I suppose you're going to be funny like Fay," she says a bit warily.

"You don't think she's funny?"

"No, I do not."

"Do you think Aunt Corinne's funny?"

"Corinne doesn't try to be funny," Gran answers, which I suppose is true. I don't recall Aunt Corinne ever saying anything remotely humorous.

"Was Aunt Margolo funny?"

"No."

"Was Grandfather funny?"

"He thought so," Gran replies.

"You didn't think so?"

"No, I did not."

"Did Mom think he was funny?"

Gran sighs, exasperated.

"I'm only trying to figure out what you think is funny," I protest.

"Fay pretended to be amused, but the only person she fooled was Ian," Gran says and presses the play button. The tape starts in the middle of a scene. She stops it again and presses rewind. She glances back at me. "Fay isn't a very good actress, but then, Ian wasn't very smart."

"Mom's smart."

"Fay is very clever," says Gran. She presses the play button again. "The episode starts after this commercial," she tells me, coming to sit on the couch.

"Did you watch already?"

"Yes, but I was reading a book."

That figures.

"I reread _Dorian Gray_ last night," Gran informs me. "So, when you finish we can discuss it."

I wrinkle my nose at her. "You read the entire book last night? Gran, I'm only on page nineteen!"

"Why are you reading so slow? Corinne was a slow reader, too. She was in a special class."

"I don't need to be in a special class," I reply, crossly. There's nothing wrong with my reading skills. It's not my fault Mr. Granier chose such dull books.

"Shh," says Gran. "You're missing the opening scene."

"Who is that guy?"

"He's new. He has a secret, but we don't know what it is yet. If you'd been watching, you'd know that."

"Gran, it's a soap opera. Everyone has a secret."

"Shh."

I would rather play tennis, but wait until the episode ends before suggesting it. Gran goes upstairs to change her clothes while I go outside to the pool house to gather the tennis equipment. Gran meets me on the tennis court. She's pulled her hair back with a barrette. She looks different without her hair falling around her face.

"Your serve," she calls out, getting into position.

I slam the ball over the net. Just because she's my grandmother doesn't warrant her any favors.

We play for the better part of an hour until Gran drops her racket and claims to have a stitch in her side.

"We haven't finished the set!" I protest, resting my hands and my racket on my hips.

"You'll have to find someone younger to finish it then," replies Gran.

Grumbling, I gather the tennis balls and zip the rackets into their covers. I return the equipment to the pool house and as Gran and I cross the yard Penelope comes running from the side of the house, yipping happily and winding around our feet, almost tripping us.

"Honestly, Penelope!" Gran exclaims.

"Did you take her to the dog groomer?" I ask, noticing that Penelope's coat appears especially shiny and fluffy today and there's a tiny red bandana tied around her neck.

"Brigitta did. I'm not letting that dog in my car," Gran replies, sliding open the patio door. She claps her hands. "In, Penelope!"

"Penelope's an odd name for a dog," I comment, following Gran inside.

"I was reading an anthology of Greek mythology when Corinne gave her to me. Penelope is the wife in the _Odyssey_. The _Odyssey_ is – "

"I know what it is," I interrupt, hoping to spare myself another book discussion. "We read it in school. It was dumb."

"You appear to think all books are dumb," remarks Gran.

I take a seat at the kitchen table and watch Gran open a can of dog food for Penelope. "I think Penny is a good dog name," I tell her.

"Well, I didn't name her _Penny._ I named her Penelope."

"Did anyone ever call you anything other than Allison?" I ask Gran.

"No."

"You never had a nickname? No one ever called you Allie?"

"Heaven's no."

"What did your parents call you?"

"They called me Allison because that is the name they gave me. I believe in calling people by their given names."

When I was a little girl, my father sometimes called me Gracie. And Nanny Catherine called me Tomato Head until my mother overheard and made her stop.

"Did my mother have a nickname when she a little girl?" I ask Gran.

"Her name is only three letters. It would be difficult to shorten it further," Gran replies and disappears into the laundry room with Penelope's dinner. She shuts the door behind her when she returns. "Ian called her Fay-Fay. Ridiculous. Would you like something to drink?"

"Just water," I answer and watch Gran take two glasses out of the cabinet, then cross to the refrigerator. "Did Aunt Margolo have a nickname?" I ask.

"Margolo had many nicknames," Gran says, flatly.

"Like what?" I prod, my interest piqued. I sit a little straighter. Finally, something I can use.

Gran ignores me.

"Like what?" I repeat.

Gran keeps her back to me, pouring water into our glasses. She carries the pitcher back to the refrigerator. When she closes the door, she turns to me and flicks her wrist in my direction in that dismissive fashion she saves for topics like my mother and Aunt Margolo. She brings the water glasses to the table and sits down. I am thoroughly dismissed.

"Corinne has always been Corinne," Gran says and takes a long drink of water. "Except Fay used to call her Cuckoo Corinne. She was always making bird calls at her. Who does that to a child? Fay was so much older, you would think she'd set a better example. But not Fay. She always did exactly as she pleased." Gran flicks her wrist again and rolls her eyes in that overdramatic way of hers. "I thought, Grace, that after church on Sunday, I could take you to brunch at the Strathmoore Inn."

"What?" I reply, slightly jarred. "Oh. The Strathmoore? I like the Strathmoore." Sometimes my parents take me to brunch there, but we haven't gone in a long time.

Gran smiles at me. Ever so slightly. "Would you like to stay for dinner? I have some chicken breasts in the refrigerator," Gran says, standing and crossing to the refrigerator.

I check my watch. It's after five o' clock. "I should probably go home," I tell her. I never know when my parents will wander home or when they'll decide to track me down. If my father calls here Gran won't lie for me.

"Oh, all right," says Gran, closing the refrigerator door.

Gran walks me to the car. "Don't forget to let Penelope out," I remind her. She watches from the driveway and waves goodbye to me.

I don't drive straight home. Instead, I drive to Green House Drive, where Aunt Corinne lives. I steer my Corvette through the entrance, guarded by stone lions, and drive up the long driveway. The house is dark, which I expected. They're usually out on Friday nights. I leave my cousin Amber's gift on the welcome mat.

My house is dark, too. I turn on all the lights as I pass through the rooms. I go upstairs and take out my French braid. It leaves my hair strangely kinky. I sit down on the bed and lift the phone receiver to my ear. I dial Mari's number.

"Hi, Mar," I greet her when her father calls her to the phone.

There's silence on the other end. She's brooding.

"Do you want to play tennis tomorrow?" I continue on. "My grandmother said we could use her court."

"Do I want to play tennis?" Mari replies. "Where have you been?" she demands. "Why haven't you returned my calls? You haven't been coming to church or youth group. I can't do it all on my own!"

"I'll be there Sunday," I promise. "Do you want to play tennis or not?"

"I guess."

"Can I ask you a favor?"

"What kind of a favor?" Mari asks, suspiciously.

"Will you ask your mom where someone would get an illegal abortion during the sixties?"

The other end of the line falls silent.

"I can't believe you'd ask me that," Mari spits out. She slams down the phone.

I stare at the receiver a moment, the dial tone singing out at me. I return the phone to the cradle. I tried.

I move to my desk and take out my binder and set to work on updating my lists when I hear the garage door open downstairs followed by the loud voices of my parents. "Grace! Grace! Are you here?" my mother's voice calls from downstairs.

"In my room!" I yell back and quickly close the binder and hide it away in my desk. I open a magazine and pretend to read it. A few minutes pass before my mother's footsteps thud up the stairs. She knocks on the open doorway and calls, "Hello!" in a cheery tone. It's been a good day.

"Hi, Mom," I reply and close the magazine.

"You got something in the mail," she informs me and I see there's a card dangling between her fingers. "Do you have a boyfriend you haven't told me about?" she asks, sounding very bemused.

"A boyfriend?" I repeat. "No."

"Are you certain?" Mom presses and raises the postcard to eye level. I see a picture of moonlight casting shadows on a silvery lake. "Because someone sent you a postcard and he's calling you darling."

"What are you doing reading my mail!" I exclaim and leap out of my chair. I snatch the postcard from her hand.

"It's not like I opened it. It's a postcard," Mom replies with a laugh. "Who is he? You haven't had a boyfriend since that Austrian boy."

"He wasn't Austrian. He was German," I argue. I dated a German foreign exchange student last winter. I broke up with him when I discovered an accent doesn't make a person interesting. "And this isn't even from a real boy," I inform Mom. "It's from Paul Stern. He's at basketball camp. He only pretends we're dating." I flip the postcard into the wastebasket and return to the desk chair.

"Oh," says Mom, somewhat disappointed. "I didn't realize you were in a pretend relationship."

I roll my eyes at her.

"Well, I hope you haven't eaten yet. Hal and I called before leaving the office, but you didn't answer. We want to take you to dinner."

"Why?"

"It's Friday night. Isn't that what regular people do on Friday nights?" says Mom. "Would you rather go to Pietro's and Chez Maurice? I'd rather not drive all the way to Stamford tonight."

I think about it. "I want to go to Pizza Express," I tell her.

"Pizza Express?"

"Yes."

"I would prefer to not go to Pizza Express."

"That's where regular people go on Friday nights."

"Pizza Express?" Mom says again. "All right. I suppose we can go to…Pizza Express."

"You should probably change," I suggest.

"And you should probably do something with your hair," Mom says. She turns and leaves the room and starts back downstairs. "Hal! She doesn't have a boyfriend! It's from one of those weird Stern kids!" I hear her shout to Dad. "And she wants to go to Pizza Express! Bring your earplugs!"

I roll my eyes and push away from the desk. I change into dark jeans and a black lace tank top and black-heeled sandals. I brush out my hair and carefully pin it up. And then I go out to dinner with my parents.


	55. Chapter 55

On Saturday, my mother leaves early in the morning to play racquetball with Mrs. Hill from next door. I keep to my usual routine – running before breakfast and then swimming laps afterward. Dad brings his newspaper out to the patio and sits there, reading and drinking his coffee and watching me swim. I don't like it.

I try to call Mari again, but her mother lies for her and claims Mari's in the shower. I consider asking Mrs. Drabek myself, but figure Mari would never forgive me. She's my doubles partner and she chose me and this week she has chased me. She is worthy of my loyalty.

When Dad asks me to play gin rummy with him, I lie and say I have a tennis game. I change into my tennis clothes, grab my racket, and leave the house. I drive to Gran's, but she doesn't answer the door. I knock and lean on the doorbell and attempt to peer through the front windows, but the curtains are drawn. I hear Penelope yipping in the backyard, so I figure Gran isn't home. She's probably at the library or a garden shop. I wait on the front step for about ten minutes, then give up. I drive to Burnt Hill Road.

Dawn's in the driveway, pulling groceries out of the trunk of Mr. Spier's new Mazda. She turns when she hears me pull alongside the curb.

"Perfect timing!" she calls with a wave.

"Your stepdad's letting you drive his new car?" I ask her, coming up the drive.

"Eh…" says Dawn, slamming the trunk down. "He doesn't know I'm driving it. He and Mom went to some country club thing with Granny and Pop-Pop. Mom and Richard are pretending to like each other today. I, of course, refused to go on principle."

"Of course."

"It's funny you came over," says Dawn, starting up the walk to the front door. "I saw your mom when I was downtown. She was sitting outside that café on Main Street with some other redheaded woman."

"That was Mrs. Hill."

"That was Mrs. Hill?" says Dawn. "She's a redhead now?"

"A fake redhead," I reply, a tad disdainfully.

"It was a bit surreal," continues Dawn. "Your mom downtown like a normal person. She was dressed sort of like you, too."

"This is a tennis dress," I inform Dawn. "And my mom _is_ a normal person. Last night, we even went to Pizza Express."

"Really? Huh," says Dawn, leading me into the kitchen. She starts unpacking her canvas bags. "And then, I saw your grandmother at the A&P."

"My grandmother was at the A&P? Doing what?"

"I believe she was shopping," replies Dawn. "She was in the produce section talking to Erica Blumberg and her mom."

"She does odd things sometimes."

"Most people wouldn't classify grocery shopping as 'odd'."

"She has Brigitta for that." I pick up a green apple and toss it in the air. "Can I eat this?"

"I'd wash it first," Dawn replies from the pantry. "That's everything. Want to watch t.v.?"

"All right," I say, biting into the apple. I follow her out of the kitchen.

"Why aren't you playing tennis with your mom?" Dawn asks when we're settled on the couch. She flips through the t.v. channels much too fast.

"She isn't playing tennis. She's playing racquetball. And Mrs. Hill invited her," I answer and grab the remote out of her hand. I change the channels slowly.

"I didn't realize they were friends. I never liked the Hills much."

I shrug. "The Hills are all right. My parents go out with them sometimes. They have a lot of the same friends. My mom pretty much likes anyone who's willing to play racquetball with her. She and Mrs. Mason used to play every weekend, but then Mrs. Mason started eating all the time and couldn't move very fast on the court anymore, and she started wearing sweatpants in public. They aren't friends now." I switch the channel to MTV and leave it there. "There's a special on Corrie Lalique coming on at noon," I explain.

"What's wrong with wearing sweatpants in public?" Dawn demands.

"Well, there's certainly nothing right about it."

"People in California wear sweatpants _everywhere._"

"Good for Californians."

"I think Mrs. Blumberg had on sweats today. Don't tell your mom."

I roll my eyes.

"Do you want to look at Mom and Richard's yearbooks again?" asks Dawn.

"Not really. I'm kind of tired of that. Thinking about it gives me a headache. Look! Corrie Lalique's releasing an exercise tape!"

It's Dawn's turn to roll her eyes. "I think Corrie Lalique sounds like an electrocuted pig when she sings. I don't get why you and Julie and Emily like her so much. Can we watch something else?"

I sigh, very heavily. "All right," I say and start flipping through the channels again.

I stay a couple hours until Sharon and Mr. Spier return home and Sharon says, _"Oh, Grace is here,"_ through a fake and strained smile. I don't know what I ever did to her. Mr. Spier is wearing a bow tie. I don't know what Aunt Margolo was thinking.

Dad's at his computer and Mom's on her exercise bike, still in her navy blue tennis dress, when I arrive home. I go into the kitchen and open a can of pineapple soda and grab a container of sliced melon. I hop onto the counter and sit there, drinking my soda and eating my melon, and thinking of what else I can possibly do to fill up my Saturday.

Mom pushes through the kitchen door with Dad behind her. "We saw you walk by," Mom tells me, opening the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of water. "Good tennis game?" she asks.

"We didn't play," I answer because it's not a lie.

"Too bad, but you and Mari won't have to play at the park anymore," Mom says, taking her purse from its hook. She digs for her wallet. "I signed up while Michelle and I were at the club," she explains and hands me a laminated card.

I flip the card over. It's for the Stoneybrook Tennis Club. It has my mother's name and picture on it. "You rejoined the Tennis Club?" I ask.

"Now you'll have someplace nice to play," Mom says. "They'll take your picture and print you a card when you go. And you can take Mari. You can take anyone you like." She smiles at me.

"Thanks, Mom," I tell her, handing back the card.

The telephone rings.

Mom turns and picks up the kitchen extension. "This is Fay Blume," she chirps. "Just a minute, please," she says and extends the phone to me. "It's Stacey."

I don't move right away. Mom shakes the phone at me. I slide off the counter and take the phone from her. I keep my voice very even. "This is Grace," I say.

"Hi! It's Stacey!" Stacey cries, a bit too cheerfully. Her voice reminds me of Sharon Spier's smile earlier. "I've been calling your number, but you didn't answer."

"I just got home."

"Yeah? Okay, well, so what are you doing tonight?"

"Tonight? I don't know," I reply. I am very aware that my parents are staring at me.

"Here's the thing," says Stace. "I know things have been kind of weird between us, but Mary Anne and I want to make up with you. Tonight, Mary Anne, Mallory, and I were supposed to go to this film festival in Greenvale, but Mallory has ringworm and her mom won't let her leave the house – "

"Is ringworm a sexually transmitted disease now?"

My parents reward me with disgusted expressions.

"No!" cries Stacey, always the defender of Mallory. She sides with Mallory Pike, but she never sides with me. "But Mallory can't go now and we've already bought the tickets. The Greenvale Historical Society is showing _Gone With The Wind_ at this old theater and there's going to be all these cool activities. Do you want to come?"

"Is that a silent movie?"

"Grace! It's _Gone With The Wind_!"

"Is it in color?"

"Grace! Are you coming or not?"

"Not," I answer. I am not a poor man's Mallory Pike. "It sounds super lame."

My father frowns at me.

"Oh," says Stacey, deflating. "It's not like…Mallory bought the tickets. It was her idea. It's not like…"

"I know what it's not like," I reply and turn my back to my parents. "I have to go. Bye."

"Oh. Bye…"

I hang up.

"That was a little rude," Dad informs me when I face him again.

"You didn't hear the other part of the conversation. It was insulting!"

"Why don't you want to see Stacey?" Mom asks. "We like Stacey."

"Then you can be her friend."

"_Grace_," says Dad.

"She wants me to be a stand-in for Mallory Pike! The girl who threw pasta on me! Remember?"

"Why are teenage girls always fighting?" Dad asks.

"Because they're teenage girls," answers Mom.

I grab my soda and my melon. "I'm going to my room," I tell them and stomp out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

I slam my bedroom door behind me. The nerve of Stacey McGill! She writes me off, pretends I don't exist, and then expects me to be grateful when she bothers to acknowledge me.

There's a plain brown bag sitting on my bed, stuffed with blue tissue paper. Inside I find a blue and red tennis dress. Mom must have bought it at the pro shop at the club.

Mom comes in without knocking.

"Do you like it?" she asks when she sees me holding the dress. "It's your school colors. I tried it on, so it should fit."

I decide not to scold her for not knocking. "It's great," I say. "Thanks." I refold the dress and place it back inside the bag.

"Why are you fighting with Stacey?" Mom asks.

"We're not fighting," I reply. "I'm just annoyed."

"And why is that?"

I shrug and sit down on the bed. "She ignores me."

"Oh," says Mom. She looks almost as uncomfortable as Dad did last night. "Have you told Stacey that?"

"Why would I _tell_ her that?"

"Maybe because Stacey isn't known for her psychic abilities."

"Well, she should know." If people paid more attention to me, maybe they would realize how they make me feel. "I'll call her tomorrow," I say, more to end the conversation than anything.

Mom smiles, thinking she has helped. If only it were that simple.

"Your cousin Amber called while you were out," Mom informs me. "She wanted to thank you for the book. You bought her a _book_?"

"About horses."

Mom rolls her eyes in that over-exaggerated way that suddenly and startlingly reminds me of Gran.

"I know, you think horses are creepy," I say when I've recovered.

"They _are_," says Mom. "I told Amber that I mailed her a check and then I had to send Hal out to actually mail one. I could hear Corinne's reedy little voice in the background, whispering in Amber's ear. You're not going to the cheerleading extravaganza?"

"No. Why don't you like Aunt Corinne?"

Mom appears taken aback. "How much time do you have?" she asks.

"I'm being serious, Mom. Did she do something to you? Did something happen?"

Mom regards me with a strange look on her face. "No," she says. "Other than that she had the great misfortune of being born." Mom pauses. "You know Corinne. You know what she's like. She's _awful_."

I don't think Aunt Corinne is _that_ bad. She always remembers my birthday and sometimes she invites me on family trips. She used to pay me really well when I baby-sat for my cousins.

"She has zero personality," continues Mom, getting on a roll. I shouldn't have started this. She's riled up now. "She's never done a single interesting thing in her life. She has no ambition. She only married Cullen so she could drop out of college and become a boring country club wife. She rides her horse and sits around at the spa. She's never worked a day in her life," says Mom, really hitting her stride. "And she's pretentious."

I suppose those things are mostly true.

"She can be okay," I tell Mom.

Mom snorts and flicks her wrist at me.

I never noticed that she does that, too.

"But she hasn't actually done anything to you? Like when you were young?"

Mom's eyes narrow. She purses her lips into a thin, straight line. "Did your grandmother say something to you about Corinne?" she asks, suspiciously.

I perk up, but keep it hidden.

"No," I reply. "Why? Is there something to be said about her?"

"No," Mom scoffs. "There's nothing to say about Corinne." But the suspicion doesn't leave her face. It clouds her green eyes.

The telephone rings.

I could murder whoever's on the other end.

"I'll let you answer that," says Mom, that look melting from her face. "I'm going to have a shower." She leaves, pulling the door shut behind her.

"This better be important!" I almost screech into the receiver.

"It is," replies the husky voice on the other end. "This is Julie. What's up, bitch? I'm back!"

"Excuse me?"

"What? Did you go deaf in the last week? This is Julie, bitch. What are you doing?"

"I…" am at a total loss for words. _What_ did she call me? "When did you get home?"

"About fifteen minutes ago. Want to come over? I'm bored."

"Maybe I'm doing something really important."

"You're not. See you soon!"

Julie hangs up on me.

I stare at the receiver. Perhaps, I didn't miss her so much after all.

Even though I should think of some creative punishment for her rudeness, I tell Dad where I'm going and drive to Julie's house. Julie's waiting on the front steps, reading a book.

"We're not playing tennis, you know," she informs me as I approach.

I glance down at my dress. "Oh, darn, I was hoping," I reply.

Julie grins, leaping up and closing her book. She looks much friendlier than the last time I saw her, the day she stormed out of Argo's. "Come on in," she says, holding the front door open for me. "We don't want the sun to crisp your delicate skin."

I roll my eyes and walk inside. "Where is everyone?" I ask. The Stern house is eerily silent.

"Mom and Dad went to pick up Paul. They won't be back until tonight. The Bernsteins brought me home," explains Julie, leading me to the back of the house. "We can't go in my room. Rachel's taking a nap. We could go to Paul's room."

"I'll pass."

Julie chuckles and throws herself onto the couch. "I called Emily. She's on her way."

"Aren't the two of you sick of each other?"

"Of course not."

The front door bangs open and Julie yells, "Don't go in my room! Rachel's asleep!" and a moment later Emily appears in the doorway, wearing a neon green t-shirt identical to the one on Julie.

"What's up, bitch?" Julie asks her.

"Why do you keep saying that?" I demand.

"That's her new thing," explains Emily. "She picked it up from Ashley Q. Hello, Grace!"

"Hi, Emily. Queue? Like a line?"

"No, Ashley Quigley. It's so we could differentiate between her and Ashley De Marco and Ashley Greeley."

"So, that's what you did at journalism camp? Hung around a bunch of Ashleys?"

"We would never hang out with Ashley D.!" shouts Julie. "And Ashley G…" Julie points her thumb downward and blows a raspberry.

"My apologies, I'm not up on the Ashley hierarchy in Nerdville," I say. "Why are you dressed alike? Is this your way of officially announcing your coupledom?"

"Are you kidding? Julie isn't even Jewish!"

"Shut up out there!" Rachel Stern screams from the other side of the house.

"Screw you, Rachel!" Julie shrieks back. "No, these are our camp shirts," she explains, returning her voice to normal. "But if you're going to insult them, we're not giving you the one I stole for you."

I raise my eyebrows. "You stole a shirt for me?"

"From Ashley De Marco. Mrs. Bernstein's washing it with the rest of my laundry," explains Julie. "Want to see our newspaper from camp?"

"Not especially."

Emily slaps Julie on her butt. "No more camp talk! I want to hear what's happening in Stoneybrook! So? What's going on?"

I shrug.

Emily frowns. "You don't have anything?" she demands.

I shake my head.

"I heard that Ross Brown asked out Kara Mauricio and she laughed in his face," says Julie.

"How did you hear that?" I ask. "You've been home for half an hour!"

"Pete called looking for Paul."

"Well, I'm certainly glad I convinced my parents to let me come over!" says Emily.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," I reply.

Emily huffs. "Well, where are Stacey and Mary Anne? Maybe they've been paying better attention to the goings-on around Stoneybrook!"

I shrug again.

Emily stares at me a moment. "Oh, lovely," she finally says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "More of that dumbness."

"I told you, we should have signed up for the two week session," Julie tells Emily. Then she looks over at me. "Hey! My birthday's next week!" she exclaims.

I'd forgotten.

"It is," I agree. "We don't have to go to the roller rink again this year, do we?"

"No, we're having a barbecue. Grandma and Granddad van der Sloot are coming from Middlebury and they're bringing my cousin Tuesday."

"Oh, goody," I say.

Julie ignores me. "I'm going to be seventeen!" she cries and leaps up. She starts jumping on the couch. "_See that girl! Watch that scene! Digging the dancing queen!_"

And then Julie falls off the couch and lands on her face.

"Good job!" yells Emily.

Rachel Stern appears in the doorway in her mauve scrubs, blonde hair falling out of its ponytail. "If the three of you don't knock it off, I'm going to break your jaws!" she screams.

"Buy some earplugs, dumbass," replies Julie, hurling a pillow at Rachel.

Rachel throws the pillow back and storms off.

"Your sister…" I start, but Julie waves me off.

The telephone rings and Julie dives for it. "This is Julie Stern, bitch!" she shrieks into the receiver. "Oh, hi, Mrs. Bernstein."

I crack up while Emily appears horrified.

"Yeah…uh huh…okay," Julie says into the receiver. "But will you bring my laundry over or do I have to come get it?...okay…yeah, bye." Julie hangs up the phone. She rolls onto her side to face Emily. "You have to go home. Your uncle and the other woman are on their way over."

"I can't believe you said that to my mother!" Emily cries, slugging Julie in the shoulder. "I'll never hear the end of it now!" Emily bounces off the couch and stalks out of the room. "Bye, Grace!" she calls back.

"Bye, Emily!" I respond. I turn to Julie. "I forgot how much she yells."

"Emily doesn't yell," protests Julie. "Let's make the guest list for my birthday party!" She jumps to her feet and runs out of the room. She comes right back. "No! I have a better idea! Let's go into Paul's room and steal all his underwear!"

"Gross, no way, Julie." I don't like the way Paul's _Star Trek_ posters stare at me.

Julie sighs. "Okay…but we can still make the list! Come on!"

Julie and I sit in her kitchen making lists for her birthday, which include many ideas from Julie that I hope are jokes. Julie tires of the process after twenty minutes or so when I'm just getting into the spirit of the list making. Julie wants to stage a water balloon attack on Rachel, but I convince her that she actually wants to swim at my house. Julie changes into her swimsuit, then we take off in my car.

My parents' Lexus is missing from the garage when we arrive. There's a post-it note on the refrigerator that reads:

_Grace – _

_We went to Uncle Ed's._

_-Your Mother_

"Nice of them to invite us along!" exclaims Julie.

I doubt my mother would ever willingly be seen in public with Julie.

When I return from changing into my swimsuit, Julie's pulled every raft, diving stick, and kick board from the shed and into the swimming pool. She appears to be setting up an obstacle course.

"First off, you have to dive off the diving board and through that floatie ring…" Julie informs me when I appear at the pool edge.

I don't know how Julie talks me into these things.

I'm halfway through my second time in the obstacle course when Julie – jealous that I am winning – wraps her legs around my neck and flips me backward. I almost die.

"What are you girls doing?" asks my mother's voice when I resurface, choking on pool water. Mom's changed out of her tennis clothes into dark jeans and a green v-neck. "Julie Stern that does not look safe."

"Hi, Mrs. Blume!" Julie practically shrieks, jumping up and down in the water, waving an arm in the air. "I'm back from camp!"

"I can see that," Mom says, wearily. "Seeing as it's your first day back could you try not to drown my daughter? Perhaps, save that for another day?"

"Sure thing. Mrs. Blume, you look _fantastic_ today!"

"Thank you, Julie. I'll see you girls later." Mom turns and walks back inside the house.

I send a splash of water straight into Julie's face. "Why do you have to be so weird?" I ask.

Julie laughs. "What? I was telling the truth!" she protests and gestures to her breasts.

"Your are obsessed with breasts, you know that, right?"

"That's because I don't have any. Where did your mom get hers?"

"They're real. I've told you that before and I'm tired of telling you. If you want your own, maybe you should make an appointment with Dr. Irving. Your grandparents could buy you a nice rack instead of taking you to Spain for graduation."

"I'm not letting Price Irving's father mutilate my body!" screeches Julie. "And so…you're saying your mom went to Dr. Irving…"

"No! Hers are as real as mine."

"_Are_ yours real?" wonders Julie. "Here – let me feel them." Julie stretches out her arms and starts moving toward me.

I cover my chest. "No way! Get away from me!"

Julie keeps coming. "Cokie Mason let me touch hers! Come here! Let me feel your boobs!"

"Girls…"

I whip my head around, still holding my arms protectively across my chest, to see Mom standing by the swimming pool. I almost die again.

"Julie, your mom called looking for you. She wants you to come home," says Mom in an odd, measured tone. "In the future, could you keep your voices down? The neighbors can hear." Then Mom turns and disappears into the house.

Julie collapses into hysterics.

I lunge at her, knocking her back into the water. She shoves her hands inside my swimsuit.

"I'm never speaking to you again," I grumble as I climb out of the pool.

Julie laughs.

"I have to take Julie home," I tell my parents when we come into the kitchen. They're standing around, drinking wine, which apparently couldn't wait until Julie left.

"I'll take Julie home," offers Dad. "You're soaked."

"I had a great time. Thanks for having me over," Julie says, grinning. "Good night, Mrs. Blume!"

"Good night, Julie."

I give Julie a dirty look. She smiles and waves.

"Why was Julie Stern trying to feel you up in the swimming pool?" Mom asks as soon as the door closes behind Julie and Dad.

"Because she's Julie Stern."

"And to think, Hal and I were worried about the German kid."

I roll my eyes.

Mom raises an eyebrow at me. "Well, it isn't every day…" Mom gestures toward the backyard and the swimming pool. "You're only seventeen. I think people of both genders should stay away from your…personal property."

"Noted, Mom."

Mom lifts her wine glass to me and then drains it. "You know…" she begins. "Sue Sanderson once threw herself on the hood of my grandfather's Cadillac and made him think he hit her. I suppose we all have our Julie Sterns."

"Don't give Julie any ideas."

Mom chuckles.

I grab a bag of tortilla chips from the pantry and sit on the counter, eating them, while Mom pours another glass of wine.

As soon as Dad comes through the garage door, he says, "Julie Stern apparently believes she's living in an ABBA song."

"Is there an ABBA song about feeling up Grace in the pool?" asks Mom.

I choke on a chip. "Mom!" I cry. "Goodness gracious!" I hop off the counter and storm out of the kitchen, Mom chuckling behind me, obviously having decided that Julie and I are not sexual deviants.

I go upstairs and take a long shower. I blow dry my hair and put on clean pajamas. I consider calling Mari. I consider calling Dawn. I consider calling Julie and screaming at her.

There's a knock at the door and Mom walks in before I can answer. "It's so early," she comments when she sees I'm ready for bed.

I shrug.

Mom shuts the door behind her, which instantly puts me on alert. I sit a little straighter on the bed. Mom comes farther into the room and drags the desk chair over to the bed. "I thought we could have a talk," she says, taking a seat. Mom crosses her legs and folds her hands over her knee.

I shift on the bed so that I face her, feeling sick and excited deep within the pit of my stomach. I hope my face does not betray me. I try to appear cool and collected.

I don't know what she could have to say.

"I've been thinking, Grace…" Mom begins and my stomach starts to drop. "For a few days now, ever since our chat in the kitchen, and then after our conversation this afternoon. I know your father would not approve of me bringing this up to you, but I am…concerned."

That I am odd and gullible and strange.

"About what?"

Mom opens her mouth, but doesn't speak. "I am concerned…" Mom says again. "That your grandmother has misled you. I shouldn't be surprised. She is spiteful and manipulative and vindictive. It does surprise me that she's decided to play this particular game. I assumed it would never come up again. Hal doesn't think I should tell you these things. He thinks I should let you make your own decisions in regard to your grandmother. However, I believe she is telling you things that are not true. What exactly did she say to you?"

I consider. I wrack my brain, choosing how to proceed, how to net the best results when I'm uncertain what exactly my mother's talking about.

"Gran said…Gran said that sometimes people do bad things and end up pregnant."

"She said that to you?" Mom asks, flatly.

I don't weigh the possible consequences of the lie, the ramifications.

I nod.

My mother's mouth sets into a thin line. "She wasn't talking about me," Mom says in that same flat tone. "That's what she wanted you to think. I can't believe…she can't stand it that I know. She wants to pretend she's perfect, but she's just as terrible as anyone else. And I know she's a hypocrite and that's driven her crazy all these years. Grace, she was talking about herself."

I wasn't expecting that.

"Gran had an abortion?"

Mom looks bewildered. "Who said anything about an abortion? No. We're talking about Corinne."

"What about Aunt Corinne?"

Mom somehow manages to look even more bewildered. "That's what your grandmother meant. Her and Corinne. Grace, have you ever taken a good look at Corinne? She doesn't look a thing like any of us. She is _short_ and those ears. She has brown hair!"

My mouth falls open slowly, as the light switches on in my head.

"Gran _wouldn't_ – "

"She would and she did."

"Just because Aunt Corinne…." I start. It's true – Aunt Corinne is petite compared to my mother and Gran and Aunt Margolo. She is a brunette. She has unfortunate ears. "You can't know for certain…"

Mom laughs. "I know for certain," Mom assures me. "It was Mr. Griswold. The Griswolds used to live in the Gates' house. He worked in publishing. Books, of course." Mom snorts. "I walked in on them in the library. They were on the desk. They weren't reading."

I cover my mouth with my hand.

"It was the first time I ever saw my mother look happy," Mom continues. She smiles a smile that isn't pleased. "She wasn't very happy when she saw me though. That was also the first time she ever yelled at me. Then she threw a book at me and fell off the desk. I hid in the closet until my father came home." Mom lifts her shoulders. "And then, a couple months later the Griswolds moved to Seattle or Vancouver or someplace and a month or so after that my mother announced she was pregnant with Corinne. And I knew."

"But you don't know it was his."

Mom gives me that smile again. "Corinne looks exactly like the Griswolds' oldest daughter," she says.

"I can't believe Gran would do that," I argue, although nothing should surprise me about my grandmother now. "What did she say to you?"

"What did she say to me? Nothing. We've never discussed it. She knows that I know and it eats at her. But I've never brought it up. Can you imagine how terrifying that was for a child? I didn't know what they were doing. We didn't have cable or R-rated movies back then."

"Does Aunt Corinne know?"

"Of course not. I've never told anyone, except Hal."

"Grandfather never figured it out?"

"If he'd even suspected, your grandmother wouldn't be alive today. He would have snapped her neck."

"From everything anyone's told me, Grandfather sounds like a total jackass. Why are you angry at Gran for cheating on him?" I ask because my mother isn't religious and doesn't go to church. As much as I disapprove, as much as I am in disbelief, like with watching him die, I can't exactly fault Gran for having an affair. Even if she is a sinner and an adulteress. In a way I understand.

"I'm certainly not angry on his behalf!" Mom protests. "He slept with every secretary that went through his office and half the women at the country club! He terrorized my mother and she did nothing about it. She is spineless and selfish. My entire childhood, she did nothing remotely productive or proactive. The only thing she ever _did_ was fuck the man across the street."

My mother's face has turned bright red. I wonder at what she expects me to say or do. I don't know what she wants from me.

"I wanted to tell you this," Mom says, as if for the first time, she actually knows what I'm thinking, "because I don't want you to think badly of me. Your grandmother wants to cause a rift between us. She is as spiteful as she is selfish. She's upset that I know her secrets. I was a straight arrow just like you. There are no skeletons rattling around in my closet." Mom takes a breath, like she is filling herself back up. "This is our secret. Please don't tell your grandmother that I told you. It would only please her that I failed to keep her secret. And don't tell Corinne. I expect you to not tell anyone."

"Of course. I won't tell anyone," I promise. We have our private secrets, my mother and I. "Is that why Gran doesn't like you?" I ask.

A muscle twitches in my mother's cheek. "She never liked me," Mom replies. She stands quickly and moves the chair back to the desk. "Don't tell your father that I told you. He thinks you're too young."

"I won't tell."

"Good. You're all right?" she asks and when I nod, she says, "I have some things to take care of," and hurries out of the room. A moment later, I hear her bedroom door shut.

She runs from me always. And still I chase her.

I wait a few minutes, sitting with my hands folded in my lap, chewing on my bottom lip. I don't know what to do with this.

Suddenly, I spring up and race to the bookcase. I pull my own photo album off the bottom shelf and flip through. I find a picture Aunt Corinne gave me years ago, of her and my mother and Aunt Margolo standing in front of the fireplace with my grandparents. It's Christmastime. There's my grandfather with his silver hair and crooked nose, barely taller than my mother. And Gran and Aunt Margolo, slender and statuesque like my mother. And Aunt Corinne, twelve or thirteen, and much shorter than everyone else with her sticking out ears and her brown-red hair. I turn several more pages until I find the pictures from the trip I took to Disneyworld with Aunt Corinne and Uncle Cullen. I already towered over her. She shares my mother's green eyes, but that is all.

I turn through the album until I find a picture of my grandmother. I rip the picture from the page. She stares at me with her carrot-colored hair and her blue eyes and her smile that doesn't reach her eyes. She is someone I've never seen. I take a black marker from my desk. I scribbled out her face. I black her out. I make the marks deep and dark. Then I tear the picture to pieces. Tiny, tiny pieces. I hide the pieces in my binder.

I leave my bedroom and listen at my mother's door. I hear nothing.

I go downstairs, my legs itching to run, my arms twitching to swim. Get away. I walk down the stairs and from the staircase, I see my father in the office with the door shut. I see him through the glass, sitting at his desk, talking on the telephone. My parents never shut the office door. It is always open, their voices always spilling outward.

I go into the kitchen and gingerly lift the telephone off the hook. I cover the mouthpiece and press the receiver to my ear.

"I wouldn't bother you, Jim," my father is saying on the other end, "but all my doctors are in New York. I need to find someone in Stamford."

My heart races. Is my father ill?

"Not a problem, Hal," answers Jim. I recognize his voice. It's Dr. Wallingford. Why would my father call a gynecologist? "We all worry about our daughters," continues Dr. Wallingford. "Let me think on it tonight. I'll call you with some names tomorrow."

"I appreciate it, Jim. I'll have to convince Fay, of course. You know how stubborn she can be," Dad says. "I want to take Grace to the best psychiatrist possible."

I almost drop the phone.

A psychiatrist! I'm not crazy!

Dad and Dr. Wallingford continue talking, but I don't listen. I carefully replace the phone on its hook. I can't believe my father. I can't believe he would do this to me. There is nothing wrong. There is nothing wrong with me.

I could scream. I could spit.

I grab my parents' empty wine bottle off the counter and smash it against the floor.


	56. Chapter 56

I don't leave my bed on Sunday morning.

I don't run. I don't do one hundred push ups or one hundred sit ups. I don't swim. I stay in bed with the comforter pulled over my head.

A car horn blasts outside.

I roll over and lift the comforter off my head. The alarm clock reads eight fifty-five.

Mom barges through the bedroom doorway without knocking. "Why is that woman parked outside?" she demands. "I told you that I don't want you to see her anymore."

"You said I couldn't go over to her house. You didn't say anything about church."

Mom snorts and leaves the room. I listen to her tramp noisily down the stairs. The car horn blasts again. Then the front door opens.

I throw back the comforter and climb out of bed, crossing to the window. I push the curtain aside. My father strides purposefully across the lawn toward Gran's Mercedes. Of course it's not my mother. Gran rolls down the passenger side window and Dad leans in. I can't see Gran. I wonder what Dad's saying. Maybe he'll tell her that she's deranged. Maybe he'll tell her to go away and not come back.

He remains at the car much longer than necessary.

I imagine that my mother's at a different window, also watching.

When Gran drives away, I return to my bed. I pull the comforter over my head again. I don't get a moment's peace before Mom comes back. She pulls the comforter off me, but I keep my face buried in the pillow. Mom stands beside the bed, not speaking. I can hear her breathing.

"I didn't realize you would take it this hard," she finally says.

I roll my head to the side so that I stare at the waistband of her jeans, the whiteness of her t-shirt. "I don't know what you're talking about," I answer and close my eyes again.

Mom touches her hand to my shoulder. "If I had known, I wouldn't have said anything," she says.

"I think I'm actually sick," I tell her.

"In that case…" says Mom and she leaves the room. She returns after several minutes and nudges me until I open my eyes. She holds out a white pill and a glass of water to me.

Reluctantly, I sit up. I take the pill from her open palm and pop it in my mouth, wash it down with the water. "Was that Tylenol?" I ask her.

"Xanax," she replies.

I lie back down and turn away from her. Mom touches my shoulder again. Her hand is warm against my bare skin. Mom pulls the comforter over me and tucks me in. She smoothes back my hair.

"It gets better," she promises. Then she leaves me alone.

I remain in bed most of the day. A few times I get up and sit at my desk and stare at my lists. But my heart isn't in it. I return to bed. I only want to sleep.

My father checks on me a couple times, but I refuse to speak to him.

Gran calls in the early afternoon. I don't answer. I lay beneath the covers and listen to her speak into the answering machine. She hopes I feel better soon.

Julie calls four times Monday morning until I pick up the phone and agree to meet her and Emily downtown. It's eleven o' clock. There's a post-it note on the night table beside the telephone. It reads in my mother's hurried handwriting:

_Grace – _

_Take this._

_Your Mother_

She's left another white pill next to the note. I pick it up and look at it. I open the drawer to the night table and drop it inside. Then I force myself to get up, take a shower, and rejoin the world.

I push through the door at Argo's at twelve twenty-five. I've dressed carefully in a spring green sundress and white sandals. I've curled my hair and pulled it back with a mother of pearl barrette. I look fresh and clean.

Emily and Julie are huddled together in our usual booth, flipping through a stack of photos. Dawn sits across from them. I put my bright face on, light myself up.

"Hello!" I call out, sliding into the booth next to Dawn.

"Finally, the miraculous return of Miss Blume," says Julie. She blows her straw wrapper across the table at me. "What's up, bitch?"

I pretend that doesn't bother me. "I was sick yesterday," I explain. Julie left no fewer than seven messages yesterday, including two songs and a poem.

Emily covers her mouth. "You're not contagious, are you?" she asks.

"I had a migraine."

Emily lowers her hand. "Oh," she says.

I pick up my menu, even though I always order the same thing. "Are there any specials?" I ask.

"A triple pepper jack cheeseburger that sounds lethal," answers Dawn.

"Which is what I'm ordering," says Julie.

"I'm not surprised," I say.

"Do you want to see our pictures from camp?" Emily asks me.

"Not especially."

Emily makes a face, but puts the pictures away. Then her expression alters. It lights up and she sits a little straighter, gaze fixed on something over my shoulder. I turn my head to see Stacey coming through the front door. Stacey stops when she sees us, hesitates, then walks over to our table.

"Stacey!" Emily exclaims. "What a surprise!"

"You invited me," Stacey replies.

I glare at Emily, but she pretends not to notice.

"Scoot over," Emily orders Julie and Julie moves nearer, making room for Stacey.

Stacey slides in beside Julie. "Hi, Grace," she greets me and smiles, close-lipped and shy.

"Hello, Stacey," I reply, stiffly.

Emily glances from me to Stacey and back again. "Fantastic!" she practically shouts. "You didn't tell me that the two of you are feuding now, too!"

"Ow!" cries Dawn, suddenly. "That's _my_ leg you kicked, Emily!"

"Sorry," apologizes Emily. Then she stomps on my foot.

"What the heck?" I demand and kick her back. I'm not in the mood.

"Again – that's my leg, Emily," says Dawn.

"Sorry."

"Grace and I aren't feuding," pipes up Stacey. She stares across the table at me, arching her eyebrows and looking somewhat hopeful.

I can't stay annoyed at her.

"You assaulted Dawn for nothing," I tell Emily.

"Oh. Hmph," huffs Emily.

"Is Mary Anne coming?" Dawn asks Stacey.

"Mary Anne's at work," Stacey answers, concentrating on her menu, not even glancing at Dawn.

Julie mouths, _Thank God_ at me from across the table.

The waiter takes our order and after he's brought our drinks, Julie starts babbling about her birthday again.

"I called and invited everyone last night," she informs us. "We're going to barbecue in the backyard. My dad's already bought the ribs and the chicken and Mom's ordered a cake from that fancy bakery on Main Street. Emily and I bought all the decorations this morning and my cousin Tuesday is bringing her karaoke machine!" Julie slaps her hand on the table and beams at us.

"I'm not singing," I tell her.

Julie frowns at me. "It's my birthday. You have to do whatever I say."

"No, I don't," I scoff.

"Every party has a pooper," says Julie. "Now, my grandparents are coming from Middlebury, so everyone needs to remember to act, like, ladylike and stuff. My aunts won't be there, though, because they're on a singles cruise in the Caribbean. Oh, but my cousin Paisley went to court last week and she gets to return to Connecticut, which is good since the new school year will be starting soon. Unfortunately, the house arrest won't be lifted in time for my party."

Stacey shakes her head in confusion.

"What school does she go to?" asks Dawn.

"What?" replies Julie. "She doesn't go to school. She teaches sixth grade science. Anyway, about the guest list – " Julie turns to Stacey. "You can tell Mary Anne that I've banned Pete Black from my party. I told Paul that if Pete shows up they'll both be wearing their butts as party hats."

"Oh…" says Stacey, swirling her straw around in her diet coke. "Actually, Julie…Mary Anne and I went shopping for your birthday gift yesterday – "

"I like birthday gifts," says Julie.

" – and Mary Anne…well, Mary Anne's not coming to your party if Dawn's there."

The grin drops off Julie's face.

Beside me, Dawn's face reddens.

"You have to be so rude about it, Stace?" I demand.

Stacey, at least, has the decency to blush herself.

Across the table, Julie stares at Stacey in disbelief.

"But it's my birthday," she protests in a small voice.

Stacey shrugs, not looking at Julie. "I'm sorry," she says, still playing with her straw. "Mary Anne just – "

"But it's my birthday!" Julie repeats, voice much louder.

"That's okay," Dawn says, quickly. "I don't have to go to the party."

"No, it's _my birthday_!" Julie retorts, voice growing louder still.

I exchange a glance with Emily.

"It's my birthday," Julie says again. "It's my birthday and I can invite whomever I wish! It's not Mary Anne's birthday! It's not your birthday! It's mine! I'm going to be seventeen years old! I've waited my whole life to turn seventeen. Most people can't wait to turn sixteen or eighteen or twenty-one, but I've been waiting to turn seventeen so I can be the Dancing Queen! I can goddamn invite whomever I like and if Mary Anne doesn't like it, Mary Anne can stay home. Mary Anne can try to dictate who goes here and who goes there the rest of the summer, but not on my birthday. I don't care if Dawn lit Mary Anne's cat on fire – it's my goddamn birthday!" Julie pounds her fist on the table.

"Excuse me," our waiter says, stopping at our table. "I'm going to have to ask you to lower your voice."

"I come in here all the time," Julie argues. "I'm a loyal customer! I can yell all I like!"

The manager disagrees and makes us leave.

"Great, Julie, where are we supposed to hang out now?" I demand.

Julie flips me off.

My jaw drops. "That's not very ladylike," I admonish.

"I think I'd prefer for you guys to not invite me out anymore," speaks up Stacey, who's standing on the edge of our group.

"Why are you upset with us?" I ask. Emily and I have done nothing rude or obscene. "Mary Anne's the one behaving like a jackass."

"I don't appreciate you calling Mary Anne a jackass," snaps Stacey. "Just like I don't appreciate being screamed at in public."

"Julie wasn't really screaming," I point out. Shouting, maybe.

Emily sidles up to Stacey. "It's nothing personal. Julie's not mad at you," she assures Stacey. "She didn't mean anything by it."

"Like hell I didn't," argues Julie.

"You've all completely lost your minds," replies Stacey, shaking Emily off her and walking away from us.

My hands fly to my hips. "What did I do?" I demand.

Stacey ignores me. She keeps walking.

"You can thank your buddy Mary Anne for tarnishing the Julie Stern Birthday Experience: Seventeen Years In The Making!" Julie calls after her.

"That was helpful," I remark, crossing my arms.

"Stacey really didn't _do_ anything," says Emily.

"She was insensitive," I say. "Dawn hasn't done anything to her." Aside from the whole Hamptons fiasco. But I don't bring that up. "Maybe she'll think twice next time before playing Mary Anne's personal messenger service."

"You know, I think I'll skip the party," says Dawn. "Sorry, Julie."

Julie's eyes sort of bug out. "You don't want to come to my birthday party either?"

"Mary Anne should go. I should be the one to stay home."

"I wouldn't get her riled up again," advises Emily.

"You are coming to my birthday party. If Mary Anne doesn't like it, she can suck an egg."

"I'm still hungry," announces Emily. "Let's go to Renwick's!"

"I don't feel like eating," replies Julie. And without another word she turns and stalks off down the street.

"Come back, Juliebean!" I call after her. She's headed in the direction of the Bernsteins' pharmacy, so I'm not chasing her.

"Julie!" Emily exclaims and dashes after her. She catches her and entwines her arms through Julie's. They disappear around the corner.

I sigh.

"Julie takes her birthday very seriously," I tell Dawn.

"I noticed."

"She spends the entire day wearing a special birthday tiara. It's a whole production."

"She's weird. I didn't even realize I was invited to her party. I think she's just trying to spite Mary Anne."

"I don't think so," I lie, although that's probably the truth. You don't back Julie into a corner and make demands.

"Should we go after them?"

"No way. I don't want to see Emily's parents. Julie will cool down. She's fed up with Mary Anne, that's all. Julie doesn't like complications. Let's go to my house. Marta went to the supermarket this morning."

Dawn and I drive back to my house. We make grilled cheese sandwiches, which is the only thing I can make other than macaroni and cheese. We eat at the kitchen table, then go upstairs to my bedroom.

Dawn sits down on the window seat and stretches out her legs. "I've caused a lot of problems," she says.

"I don't suppose you're ever going to tell me what you and Mary Anne are fighting about." I lay down on the bed, kicking my long legs into the air.

"No," Dawn says, simply. "Just that it's really petty and dumb."

"Something dumb that Mary Anne did…" I think aloud. "And now she's embarrassed by it…"

"I don't need to make more trouble for myself," says Dawn. "Do I actually have to go to Julie's party?"

"If you don't, she'll probably punch you in the face. She punches hard." I remember. Vividly.

"I'm tired of being the bad guy," Dawn sighs. "When my friend Sunny comes…"

I don't really listen to what she says next.

"Grace?"

"Huh?" I reply, breaking out of my reverie.

Dawn gives me a peculiar look. "Are you okay?" she asks.

"Yes, I'm fine."

"You're sure? You're acting kind of…" Dawn doesn't finish.

I think I'm acting perfectly normal.

"No, I'm fine. What were you saying?"

"Nothing important," answers Dawn. She draws her knees to her chest. "Why weren't you in church yesterday? I went with Granny and Pop-Pop because I thought you'd be there. Mari didn't know where you were either. She tried to make me sit by the trashcan, but I wouldn't do it. She seemed pretty peeved."

"I didn't feel well," I say, which isn't a lie. It's the truth. I felt awful. "Why didn't you ask my grandmother?"

"I didn't see her."

I wonder if Gran didn't go after all. She never misses church. And she shouldn't. Church is exactly where she should be.

"You have a weird look on your face," Dawn observes. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing," I say and smile.

Dawn doesn't appear convinced. "What's going on?" she asks. "Do you know something? Did you find something out? You have to tell me. We promised."

"I know we promised. I have nothing to tell."

"Swear?"

"I said I promised. I still don't feel well, that's all. I have a headache."

Dawn's face softens. "Okay, sorry," she says and I feel a bit guilty, but I press it down.

Suddenly, Dawn leaps to her feet and rushes toward my desk. "Let's update the diagram!" she suggests, reaching for my desk drawer.

I leap off the bed and run over to her. "Stay out of my things!" I order, slamming the desk drawer shut, almost catching Dawn's fingers.

Dawn jumps back.

I recover myself. "I'm sorry," I apologize, controlling my tone. "I don't like people touching my things." I open the drawer and remove the diagram from where it rests on top of my binder. I extend it to Dawn.

Dawn waves it away. "No, that's okay," she says. She glances down. "What's this?" she asks, reaching into the trashcan. She plucks out Paul's postcard.

I don't see why she thinks digging through my trash is any better than going through my drawers.

Dawn reads the postcard and giggles. "Why did you throw this away?" she asks me. "It's funny."

"Why do you think?" I retort and snatch the postcard back. I drop it into the trashcan again.

"It's sweet," says Dawn, going back to her spot on the window seat. "Don't you think…you don't think Paul's kind of cute?"

"No!" I scoff, appalled. "Why? Do _you_?"

Dawn lifts her shoulders. "He's cute in a lanky, goofy sort of way."

"He's an abomination."

Dawn laughs.

"I think he's a result of all the drugs Mr. and Mrs. Stern took in the sixties."

Dawn laughs again. "I think he's funny."

I stare at her, trying to process this disturbing information. "You want to _date_ Paul Stern?"

"No! Of course not! I don't think he's suitable dating material _at all_. Besides, I have a boyfriend back home."

Funny, she didn't seem too concerned about this boyfriend when she was flirting with Logan Bruno or chasing after creepy Bryce. "You have really terrible taste in boys," I inform her. "Logan, Bryce, and now Paul Stern. I shudder to imagine what your real life boyfriend is like."

Dawn chuckles. "Justin is totally normal. He's awesome."

"If he's so awesome, then why are you shopping around for a new boyfriend?"

"I'm not. But I'm in Stoneybrook, not a nunnery. I can sample the merchandise." Dawn laughs some more. "I seriously expected you to be the boy-crazy one. You and Stacey McGill – talk about a one-eighty. You do know Stoneybrook _isn't_ a nunnery, right?"

I roll my eyes.

Dawn grins. "When was the last time you went out on a date?" she asks.

"I went to the prom with Mari's cousin Dylan." We went out a few times before that. But he hasn't called since prom night. "I'm particular."

"Yes, you are."

I frown at her.

"Don't worry," she says, still grinning. "I understand. I have you all figured out."

I don't know what she's talking about.

"Do you want to go to the Stoneybrook Tennis Club?" I ask, changing the subject. "We just rejoined and I have to take my new membership picture. We don't have to play tennis. They have racquetball courts, too."

"I think I'll pass, thanks."

"Your loss," I reply with a shrug. I'll go tomorrow.

After I drive Dawn home, I return to my silent house and my bedroom. I call Julie, but Paul answers, so I hang up. Then, even though I have nothing to apologize for, I call Stacey. Mrs. McGill tells me that Stacey's at the library working on a project for her summer school class. She chats with me for a few minutes, acting all sunny and oblivious. Stacey hasn't told her mother that she and Mary Anne cut me out. I talk to Mrs. McGill like nothing's wrong, playing the game. I ask Mrs. McGill to tell Stacey that I hope to see her at Julie's birthday party.

Deep down, I know I shouldn't blame Stacey. I remember what it's like to be wrapped up within another person, like Stacey and Mary Anne, or Emily and Julie, or my mother and my father. I remember when Cokie was the be all and end all of my days. I made a lot of excuses for Cokie and she made a lot of excuses for me. I can't fault Stacey.

I wonder if I'll ever speak to Mari again. I'm usually an expert at navigating her moods, but I fear I've pushed her too far.

I'm cleaning up Dawn's and my mess in the kitchen when my parents come home. They appear quite chipper for a Monday evening. I don't exactly share their good cheer.

"Good evening, Grace," Dad greets me.

I grumble a reply.

"Hello, Grace," Mom says, brightly. "How was your day?" I've already spoken to her twice today. She called in the morning and after lunchtime.

"Fine."

"You don't need to do that," Mom tells me, as I begin rinsing out the bowls. "That's what we pay Marta for."

I roll my eyes at the running faucet.

"Did you have a good day, Grace?" Dad asks me. "What did you do?" He wants to reassure himself that I've been out of bed and out of the house.

"I met my friends downtown," I reply. Can't he see that I'm all dressed up?

"That's nice, Grace," Dad says with a vague smile.

I wait until his back is turned to give him a nasty look.

"I'm supposed to call Stacey," I lie and leave the kitchen, where my parents are going through the freezer with their laptop bags still swinging from their shoulders.

Fifteen minutes later, Mom appears in the open doorway. She raps on the doorframe. "Hello, may I come in?" she calls in a cheerful voice that matches her cheerful expression. It's like the weekend never happened. She's moved on.

I close my magazine. "Certainly," I reply, sliding around in my desk chair.

"You look very pretty today," Mom tells me, coming into the room. "I want to show you something." Mom pulls a pair of black lace panties from the pocket of her suit jacket.

"Why are you walking around with panties in your pocket?" I ask her.

Mom shakes them out. "Where else would I have put them?" she answers. She holds the panties in front of her within my full view. "Look at this!" she cries, suddenly not so cheerful. More annoyed. "Fiona Fee is going to start selling these! They are crotchless panties! Have you ever seen anything so tacky? What kind of a woman would wear these? This is something you'd find in a dirty fetish shop, not at Fiona Fee!"

Only my mother would think it's appropriate to bring a pair of crotchless panties home from work to show me.

"That's gross, Mom. What's the point? They don't cover anything."

"Grace, they're not for every day wear," Mom explains, twirling the panties around on her finger. "But they aren't sexy either. I've made my feelings on the subject abundantly clear at the office, but no one seems to care. I knew you would agree with me. Hal thinks they're some kind of expensive gag gift."

"I don't need to know what Dad thinks about crotchless panties, Mom."

"I don't see what's bothersome about that statement," Mom replies and returns the panties to her pocket.

"Can I keep them?" I ask. "I have to get Julie a birthday present."

Mom removes the panties from her pocket. "I don't know that I was supposed to take them, but I suppose you can have them." She hands them over.

I stretch the black lace between my hands. "Julie will be thrilled." I think Dad is correct. "No one wore these, right?"

Mom shakes her head. "No. At least I hope not." She makes a face. When her expression returns to normal, she says, "Grace…" and turns and shuts the bedroom door. Never a good sign.

I go on the alert.

I'm not in the mood for any more secrets.

Mom comes to stand nearer to the desk. "Hal thinks you're mad at him," she tells me.

I lower my guard slightly. "Why would he think that?" I ask, coolly.

"Because you won't speak to him."

"Why would I be mad at him?"

"Grace…" Mom says, exasperated. Like she is ever easy to talk to. "Are you still upset about what he said about moving? I told you, we're not going anywhere. He had a bad day, that's all. He didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset."

"Then why aren't you speaking to him?"

"I don't know. I guess I'm just strange."

Mom stares at me, looking puzzled.

"You can talk to me when things are bothering you," Mom tells me.

Yeah, right.

"I'm just being a teenager."

If possible, Mom looks even more perplexed.

"Hm," she says. "All right, Grace. You'll tell me if there's something wrong. But I don't want you being rude to your father. You've hurt his feelings."

I've hurt _his_ feelings? What a joke.

"I didn't mean to."

Mom nods. "I'll let him know, Grace." Mom turns and walks toward the door. "Enjoy your magazine," she says. Then she's gone.

She has no clue. About anything.

I lay awake in bed, watching the glowing numbers change on the alarm clock. My parents went to bed hours ago. I don't sleep well, sometimes. Tonight, I do not sleep at all. Finally, well past one o' clock, I climb out of bed. I peel off my pajamas and step into a pair of sweat shorts and tug a t-shirt over my head. I put on my running shoes and tie my hair back in a ponytail. I slip soundlessly into the darkened hallway. I creep downstairs, careful not to make a noise, and go out through the back door.

It's silent on the street. The summer night air is cool. I am alone. I walk the first two blocks until I reach Spring Street and then I break into a run. I run through downtown Stoneybrook, I run all the way across town. I don't meet a single car. Stoneybrook is a ghost town. I run through the open gates of the Bainbridge Estates, legs leaping in the night, arms pumping furiously. I run past Lupine Way and down Grayson until I reach Bertrand. I slow, feet thudding lighter on the concrete. I sit down on the curb in front of the Gates' house. I fold my arms over my knees and watch the light shining in my grandmother's attic.


	57. Chapter 57

"You disappeared on me again," Gran says when she lets me into the house on Tuesday.

"I was sick."

"So Harold told me," Gran replies and leads me into the library. "I have something for you. Two things, actually."

"Really?" I ask, interest piqued. She doesn't often give me things. She buys me lunch and writes me checks for Christmases and birthdays, but she doesn't often give me actual gifts. But we're in the library, so I figure it's a book.

"Now which drawer did I put them in?" Gran wonders aloud, going around the desk. I wonder if it's the same desk Aunt Corinne was conceived on. Gross.

"Here we are," says Gran, happily, face lighting with a rare brilliant smile. She extends a large white envelope to me. "Here, Grace. Take it." She shakes it at me.

I hesitate before stepping anywhere near the desk. I lean over it carefully, making sure to not touch it, which is silly. It's been cleaned many times in the last forty years. But still.

"What is it?" I ask, taking the envelope from her. It's addressed to me – Miss Grace Blume, but has Gran's street address. The return address is Smith College.

"I called the school and requested an application. I knew you wouldn't do it yourself," Gran tells me, coming around to stand behind me, placing her hands on my shoulders. I start to shake her off, but don't. She smells like violets.

"I don't want to go to Smith."

"Oh, pish posh," replies Gran. She takes the envelope from my hands and opens the flap. "We can fill it out together and then I'll help you with the essay. You'll have it done way in advance and you won't have to worry about it when the school year begins." Gran flips through the application. "You have several choices of essay topics. Here's one: describe an event in your life that has defined who you are."

I don't think I can submit an admissions essay about any of the events that have defined who I am.

"That's a silly question," continues Gran. "You're seventeen. You don't know who you are yet. Don't worry. There are other topics."

"I am _not _going to Smith," I say, crossly. "I've told you and told you." No one ever listens to me. "Mom says that you can't make me go to Smith like you made her."

Gran looks up and her eyes widen in surprise. I've caught her off-guard. "Like I made her?" Gran repeats. "Like I made her?" Gran sets her mouth in a firm line. "I didn't make Fay do anything! She wanted to go to Smith. She had to beg Ian to let her go. He wanted her to go to Yale like him. Ian didn't think much of women's colleges, least of all one that educated me. Fay got her way, of course. But then, so did Ian. He made her go to Yale Law. She didn't want to go _there_." Gran replaces the admissions application in the envelope and pulls out the accompanying brochure. "But I certainly didn't make Fay go anywhere. As if I could. Fay does as she pleases."

"Well, Mom remembers it differently."

Gran sniffs. "Fay always was creative with the truth," she says. She opens the brochure. "Look at how much fun these girls are having, Grace. And all they're doing is studying in the library. There's my old house. Why is there a man in the background?" Gran squints at the picture.

"That's a girl, Gran."

"Is it?"

"I'm not going to Smith. I'm sorry that you went to all the trouble to get the admissions information."

"Nonsense. We all go to Smith. Fay loved Smith, even if I _forced _her to go there. And you don't need to be nervous about getting admitted. It may be a competitive school, but you're a legacy and I donate money every year."

Splendid. She plans to buy my way into college.

"You had something else for me?"

"Oh, yes," Gran says, tearing her eyes from the brochure. She returns it to the envelope. She crosses to the desk again and removes a small stack of papers stapled together. "I made this for you," Gran tells me, returning to my side.

"What is it?"

"It's a study guide. See, there's a plot summary for _Dorian Gray_ and a character guide and chapter summaries. I wrote it last night."

Excellent. Now I don't have to read the book.

"Thank you," I say, taking the papers. I thumb through the pages. It's incredibly detailed. I feel a strange tugging in my chest over all the anger and annoyance and disappointment I have toward her. She surprises me.

"I hope it helps."

"It will," I say. I wonder if I can be angry with her and forgiving of her at the same time.

Gran smiles. She looks quite pleased with herself.

I fold the study guide neatly and slide it inside my purse. I remember when I was a little girl and Nanny Catherine couldn't find Mrs. Mason or Mrs. Blumberg or Mr. Drabek to watch me. She would call Gran instead. She would claim she wanted to work on her dissertation, but I think she was actually going out to pick up men at one of the bars outside Stoneybrook. Nanny Catherine would drop me off at Gran's and Gran would meet us at the car. She would always say, "I'm not a baby-sitter, you know," but she'd take me just the same. She would let me swim in her pool and play on her tennis court. She would fix me lunch. It wasn't very often, but it was nice when it happened.

"Thank you," I say again and in my brittle state, it's almost enough to wipe my heart clean.

"Don't forget the admissions application," Gran reminds me, handing that over, too.

I take it and put it in my purse. It sticks out the top.

"Maybe you should go back to Smith," I tell her. I don't mean it meanly. "You could finish your degree."

"Why would I do that?" Gran asks. "I don't need a career now. Ian left me plenty of money."

"For the joy of learning."

"I have no desire to move to Massachusetts. This is my house. I'm not leaving. I'm going to – "

"Live here forever and be buried in the backyard," I finish. This sounds eerily familiar. "Dad wants to move," I tell her. It passes through my lips without thought. "When I leave for college he wants to sell the house and move back to the city."

"They should. I don't know why they ever moved here in the first place."

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. I expected her to be sympathetic, I don't know why. "They didn't want to raise me in the city."

"Many, many children live in New York City every day without being murdered. Fay is an alarmist. Harold is much too indulgent."

Whatever warm emotions I felt toward my grandmother a few minutes ago begin to evaporate. It's like with my mother, there are these moments I feel so close to her, and then she tramples all over them.

"But if we never moved here," I protest, "you would never see me." There's no way she ever would have visited us in the city.

"I would have seen you on holidays," Gran replies. Her face changes then, becomes somewhat softer. "I don't mean to offend you," she says and I'm shocked she recognizes what she's done. "It's not a reflection on you, Grace, dear. It's a reflection on Fay and her ridiculous ideas. Of course I'm pleased that you live here. It's Fay I could do without."

I can't comprehend why she thinks that would make me feel better.

"That's a really mean thing to say about Mom," I tell Gran.

Gran's face alters again. It goes completely blank. She slides her hands inside the pockets of her tan slacks. She doesn't say anything.

I wish I could hurt her.

But I can't hurt her without betraying my mother.

"My parents only moved here because of me," I hear myself say. "I think Dad blames me. They would have stayed in the city, but Mom got pregnant. They never wanted me. Aunt Corinne told me. And you told her."

"Yes, Fay called a few weeks ago screaming at me about that. I don't know what she was speaking of. I certainly never told Corinne anything of the sort. If Fay desires to yell at someone, she needs to telephone her dear cousin Kathy. That woman couldn't keep a secret if you broke all her fingers and glued her mouth shut."

"You didn't tell Aunt Corinne that?"

"No, I did not. I have no need to blab Fay's private business to other people. She came up here crying and wringing her hands over being pregnant, as if I could do anything about it, but I never told anyone. Why would I? I've always kept Fay's secrets."

"You told me that my parents were excited when Mom was pregnant. You lied to me."

"No, I did not. They were excited, eventually. I glossed over the truth to spare your feelings. I didn't want a scene like you're causing now. What does it matter? You're here. Everyone seems very pleased with you. Most of the time." Gran pauses. "And I doubt Harold blames you for anything. More likely he's grown tired of the commute."

She would have to be cold and sterile and reasonable.

She's probably right. But she doesn't make me feel any better.

"Mom tells you secrets?" I ask.

"Fay always seemed to think I had an interest in the private goings-on in her life."

"What kind of secrets did she tell you?"

"Well, if I told you, they wouldn't be secrets, would they?"

"Are they scandalous?"

"Fay isn't that interesting," Gran replies. She sighs. "It was nothing particularly remarkable or noteworthy. And it's nothing anyone cares about anymore, except you, apparently. She didn't want to be a lawyer, she didn't want to go to Yale. Those are very dull secrets, I'm afraid. The only thing of remotely any interest was when she ran off and married your father. She had told me at her graduation that they were engaged and made me promise not to tell Ian. Then she called a week later and they'd eloped. I promised not to tell Ian that either. And I didn't. He figured it out eventually when she didn't move into the apartment he'd rented for her in Stamford and when she didn't show up for the job he'd secured her. She never even took the bar exam. I kept that a secret, too."

"That's it?' I ask, disappointed.

"What did you expect?"

I shrug. I don't know.

I think my mother is a dead end.

"Does she keep your secrets, too?" I ask.

"I'm a housewife from Connecticut. I don't have any secrets," Gran answers, not missing a beat. She lies without effort.

"I have secrets," I tell her.

Gran chuckles. "You're seventeen. What secrets do you have? That your one blonde friend copied your Jewish friend's homework? Or your other blonde friend kissed the quarterback behind the gymnasium?"

I'm more than a little annoyed that she can't remember my friends' names.

"I'm complex."

"I'm certain you are." She sounds amused. I suppose I've discovered what she finds funny. "It's lunchtime. Are you hungry? I have egg salad." Gran leaves the library, expecting me to follow her.

I trail after her.

"Were you at church on Sunday?" I ask her.

"Of course," she replies, opening the refrigerator door. "I came by your house. Harold said you were ill."

"Do you like church?"

Gran turns around. "Pardon?" she says.

"Do you like church? Why do you go?"

Gran looks confused. "I've attended First Methodist for over fifty years. Why wouldn't I go?"

"But do you like it?"

"I suppose so," Gran says and ducks back inside the refrigerator. She comes out with a clear container filled with egg salad. She takes it to the counter. "I have croissants," she informs me.

"That's fine," I say. "And why do you belong to the Greenvale Country Club if you never go there?"

"Why do you care?" Gran asks, slicing a croissant in half.

"It seems like a waste of money."

"It's my money. I'll spend it as I please," Gran informs me.

"I heard the country club has a beauty pageant," I say. "Do you think I could be in it?"

Gran's hand stills. Just for a moment. She begins slicing again.

"Fay and Harold wouldn't let you be in a beauty pageant," she says. "They're too progressive."

"They let me run for Homecoming Princess last year," I point out. Which I lost to that skank Dorianne Wallingford.

"Popularity contests are different from beauty contests," says Gran. She turns away from the counter, a plate in each hand. She smiles. It's fake. "What would you like to drink, Grace?"

"Whatever you're having."

Gran brings a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses to the table. Before she sits down, she leans forward and smoothes my hair, running her fingers through the front, moving it so it falls across my forehead. She smiles that smile that doesn't reach anywhere else on her face and sits down.

I eat my sandwich without a word.

I help Gran clean the kitchen after lunch. She rinses our dishes and I place them in the dishwasher.

"What did you and Dad talk about on Sunday morning?" I ask Gran.

"Harold told me that you were ill."

"What else?" I prod. I watched from the window. I know their conversation lasted longer than _Grace is ill. Have a nice day._

"That's between Harold and myself."

I glance over at her. "Was it about me?"

"Not everything in this world is about you, you nosy girl," Gran answers and hands me the rinsed Tupperware.

Then she pats my back.

"It's almost time for _General Hospital_," she says, shutting off the faucet. She strides out of the kitchen.

I look after her, remembering all the things my mother has said. And all the things Mrs. Porter said. And the things I overheard my father say.

And I wonder what it would be like if Gran were to permanently turn on me.

Paul and Rachel Stern are playing basketball in their driveway when I park my Corvette across the street. I walk across the street, glancing back at my car, trying to assure myself that it's a safe distance from Paul and Rachel and their basketball.

"Darling!" Paul cries when he spots me.

I ignore him.

Paul bounds up to me, dribbling the basketball between his legs. Rachel stands behind him, dressed in tiny running shorts and a sweat-soaked tank top. She wipes her drenched brow and looks annoyed.

"Want to see what I learned at basketball camp?" Paul asks and races toward the basket and performs a rather impressive lay-up.

"You didn't know how to do that _before_?" is all I say.

Paul grins and dribbles the ball behind him. "Get any mail lately?"

"Only junk mail."

"The United States postal service is notoriously unreliable," says Paul.

Rachel steals the basketball and bounces it off Paul's head.

I walk away with Paul blowing kisses after me.

Julie lets me in. "_Quelle surprise_!" she exclaims, sounding much cheerier than yesterday. "Come in, come in." She steps aside.

"What happened to 'what's up, bitch'?" I inquire, slipping inside. It may not be wise to remind her, but Julie isn't likely to forget things so quickly.

"I'm not allowed to say it anymore. Grandma van der Sloot called last night. She didn't think it was too hilarious." Julie leads me into the living room where she has colorful pieces of paper spread over the coffee table. The floor is littered with origami birds.

"What are you doing?"

"Making pasta. What does it look like I'm doing?" Julie says, taking a seat on the couch. "Emily and I found this origami set at the party supply store. We're making them for my birthday party."

I don't ask why. There is likely no rhyme or reason.

I take a seat beside her and start folding a sheet of yellow paper. I fold it into a perfect yellow paper crane.

"Impressive, Miss Blume!" Julie cries.

I shrug and start on another. We made origami birds for the Spring Fling sophomore year.

"Where's Emily?" I ask, surprised that she hasn't come barreling out of a back room by now.

"At the mall buying my birthday present," Julie replies, attempting to fold two different colored sheets into one bird. "She said she was visiting her grandparents, but she's a terrible liar."

"I have a fantastic gift for you."

"I expect only the best."

Julie switches on the television and the Corrie Lalique special is replaying on MTV. We sit on the couch, folding paper birds, and half watching the television for close to an hour. Julie prattles on nonsensically every so often. It's comfortable.

Then I feel something on my shoulder.

I turn my head slowly to see a little redheaded doll perched on my shoulder, held up by two thin strings. I look behind me and Paul's crouched in the doorway, holding a long wooden pole with the strings tied on the end, making the doll dance on my shoulder.

"What the heck are you doing?" I demand, batting the doll away.

Julie glances over and starts to laugh.

Paul doesn't say anything. He swings the doll back to me.

I smack the doll again.

Paul snickers.

So does Julie.

"Would you get your little doll away from me?" I ask, testily.

Paul's face turns serious. "It's not a doll, it's an action figure," he protests, sounding genuinely offended.

"I don't care what it is, get it out of my face!" I brush the doll away once more. It bobs in the air beside me.

"That's Dr. Beverly Crusher," Paul informs me. "She's a redheaded vixen."

"Is that a real person?"

"I'm dressing up as her for Halloween. I already have the Starfleet uniform. Would you cut off your hair, so I can make a wig out of it?"

"You're a freak," I say and grab the doll and snap it from the stick. I hurl it at him.

"Hey!" shouts Paul. "She's a collector's item!" He picks up his doll and runs away.

"You shouldn't have done that," says Julie. "He feels very strongly about Dr. Crusher." Julie returns to the origami. "And don't worry - he was joking. Mom already bought him a wig."

If I rolled my eyes any harder, they'd get stuck inside my head.

"Hello, Sterns!" Emily's voice shouts from the foyer. She rushes through the doorway to the living room. "You aren't finished yet?" she asks, throwing her purse on the recliner and dropping onto the floor beside the coffee table. "Hello, Grace!"

"Hi, Emily."

"This is all you've done?" Emily asks, picking up one of the birds.

"I'm sorry, you appear to have mistaken my house for a sweatshop."

"We've gone through almost all the paper," I point out, irritably.

"Hm," says Emily. She looks around. "Where is Paul?" she demands. "He's supposed to be helping!"

"Grace chased him off."

"He wasn't doing anything useful. He was playing with his doll."

Emily's head whips around. "Paul has a doll?"

"Action figure," corrects Julie.

"Oh, he plays with those all the time," says Emily. She climbs to her feet and dashes out of the room. She goes through the house yelling Paul's name. When she returns, she says, "He locked the door and wouldn't let me in."

"He's probably in there with his doll," I say.

"Gross, Grace," laughs Julie.

"No, he's playing his keyboard," says Emily, reclaiming her spot on the floor.

"Composing a song for his doll."

"Was it Dr. Crusher? Probably," agrees Emily. "Julie, what are you doing? One paper per bird! One! You're wasting the paper!" She smacks Julie's leg with a stack of paper.

"I'm creative. Leave me alone."

"I think mine look nicer than yours," I say.

Julie leans over and grabs the bird I just finished. She crumples it in her fist and throws it at me.

"That wasn't necessary."

"Stop picking on me. It's my birthday."

"Oh, it is not," I argue and then let it drop.

We work in silence for a while, the drone of MTV filling the air. Emily hovers behind me, breathing down my neck until I elbow her in the face. She goes to bother Julie after that.

Rachel comes into the living room and climbs over the back of the couch, dropping between Julie and me. She's showered, her hair slicked back into a wet ponytail, and smelling of freesia. She grabs the remote and switches the channel to some cooking show.

"We were watching that, jerkface!" shouts Julie, lunging for the remote.

Rachel kicks Julie with her sneaker. "I always watch _Cooking With Chelsea_," she says and turns the volume up.

"Watch it in Mom and Dad's room then, dipstick."

"They don't have cable. Now shut up."

"At least help us make our birds," says Emily, pushing some of the origami paper toward Rachel.

"No way," scoffs Rachel, propping her sneakers on the coffee table, right on top of the paper. She raises the volume again.

Rachel is lovely.

I roll my eyes at Emily and continue folding. Julie karate chops Rachel's leg, but Rachel only kicks her again.

The couch begins to ring and Rachel shoves a hand between the cushions and pulls out the cordless phone. "Hello?" she says into the receiver. "No, it's Rachel. Just a sec." She throws the phone onto Julie's lap. "It's your little boyfriend."

Julie's pointy ears turn pink. She grabs the phone and barks, "I told you to stop calling me!" then hangs up and hurls the phone across the room.

"Did you just hang up on my cousin?" demands Emily.

"You're dating Cousin Michael and his nose?" I ask.

"No!" Julie practically shrieks. "I said I'd go to his sister's wedding with him, but only because that's the only way I can go!"

"You aren't going as Emily's date?"

"You know I'm not allowed to date until I'm eighteen!" exclaims Emily.

"Are you going to wear a dress?" I ask Julie. I've never ever seen her in a dress or skirt. She wore culottes to our eighth grade graduation ceremony.

"No way! Aunt Page said I could wear pants. I asked."

"Wait until you see the outfit she bought," says Rachel, staring straight ahead at the television. Then she turns the volume up again.

Outside the sliding glass door, Paul's lurching around like an ape.

"Your brother is a mutant," I tell Julie.

Rachel shoots me a nasty look.

Julie laughs. "Yeah, I know. Isn't it great?"

Emily jumps up and flounces over to the door. She slides it open and yells, "Paul Stern! Stop acting like a buffoon and get in here and fold this paper!"

Paul responds by picking Emily up and throwing her over his shoulder. He races inside the house and runs around the living room with Emily screeching and pounding her fists against his back. He spins her around and then disappears into the hallway.

"I'm coming, Emily!" Julie shrieks, leaping up onto the couch. She tramples over Rachel and then over me, swinging her leg over my head and hitting me in the head with her butt. She flies out of the room, shouting at the top of her lungs. The front door opens and slams shut. Then opens and slams again. Rachel turns up the volume on the television.

I don't know how anyone lives in this madhouse.

The garage door opens and I hear Mr. and Mrs. Stern's voices booming in the kitchen. They appear in the doorway to the living room, Mr. Stern in his postal uniform, Mrs. Stern in a navy blazer and floral-print skirt.

"Why is Paul attempting to throw Emily through the basketball hoop?" asks Mrs. Stern.

Emily's not _that_ little.

I turn around. "Did you ask him?"

"No. I didn't really want to know," answers Mrs. Stern. "Rachel, why haven't you started dinner?"

"I feel sick," replies Rachel without turning to look at her mother.

"You're not sick. Go start dinner."

Rachel grumbles and switches off the television. I refuse to move my legs when she wants to pass, so she steps on my feet, nearly breaking all my toes. She's still grumbling to herself when she disappears into the hallway.

Mrs. Stern grins at me. "Having a good summer, Grace?" she asks, brightly.

"Stellar," I say, rubbing my bruised toes. I glance at the clock. "I need to go home." I didn't realize it was so late.

When I climb into my Corvette, Paul, Emily, and Julie are on the Bernsteins' front lawn, Paul spinning again, Emily now in his arms, flailing and kicking her feet. Mrs. Bernstein's on the front steps, screeching at him. Mr. Bernsteins' also on the porch, standing around with Uncle Malcolm and a woman I take to be the infamous girlfriend. When I drive past, Paul tosses Emily into a flowerbed.


	58. Chapter 58

"It's my birthday!" Julie shrieks when she flings open the front door on Thursday afternoon.

"Happy birthday," I tell her, even though I wished her a happy birthday at eight o' clock this morning when she called and demanded that I sing to her. I did not.

"Thank you!" Julie shouts and snatches the gift from my hands. She hugs it to her chest and beams.

Julie looks decidedly unJulie-like today. She's wearing tight gray slacks and black boots with a strapless gold-yellow embroidered top. There's a silver chain around her neck with a silver flower charm bobbing at her throat. She has round pink stones in both earlobes and her hair is pinned up in a coronet with a wreath of pink flowers on her head. She's wearing a lot of make up – mascara and eyeliner, pink eye shadow and violet lip gloss, even blush.

"Come in, come in!" she says, eagerly, and then her eyes widen, lighting up, gazing over my shoulder. I look back to see Erica Blumberg's Thunderbird pull into the driveway. Erica, Pete Black, Lauren Hoffman, and Robert Brewster climb out of the car and begin up the walk. Lauren Hoffman clings to Robert's arm, latched onto him tightly. She may not be slutty like her mother, but she certainly is as pathetic.

Julie shoves my present back into my arms and runs out onto the front steps. She throws her arms into the air and hollers, "It's my birthday!" and then grabs my arm and pulls me inside. "Come on! Come on!" she orders, excitedly.

"That's a real nice motor home out there," I remark, allowing myself to be dragged along.

"You like it? Grandpa van der Sloot loves giving tours, if you're interested."

"No thanks. Hey, what's in your hair? Where's the birthday tiara?"

"Don't you remember? Rachel threw it in the fireplace on her last birthday. Tuesday made this for me. Everyone's outside. Give me that." Julie snatches my present again and deposits it on the coffee table in the living room, already cluttered with brightly wrapped and ribboned gifts. "This way! This way!" Julie calls to Erica and the others. "Thank you, thank you," she says, taking their offered gifts and placing them on the growing pile.

The Sterns' patio is packed. Mr. Stern and Rachel are standing at the barbecue, each holding a pair of tongs. Rachel has dressed up for the occasion in another pair of miniscule running shots and a white undershirt. Mrs. Stern and Mrs. Bernstein are ducking in and out of the house, carrying trays of fruits and vegetables and bowls of chips and dips with Mr. Bernstein trailing at Mrs. Bernstein's heels, clearly clueless as to what he's supposed to do. Julie's grandparents, Mrs. Sterns' parents, are moving around the patio furniture, for no apparent reason, and grinning almost maniacally at the other guests. Out in the yard, Paul's chasing Holly, the dog, while wearing a pair of Julie's capri pants, which look more like pedal pushers on Paul's gangly legs, and a hot pink camisole. Their cousin, Tuesday, who I've met more times than necessary, is doing a handstand on the picnic bench, scissoring her legs back and forth while Ross Brown and some of the other boys clap appreciatively.

"Did you invite the entire Senior class?" I ask Julie.

"Pretty much," she answers. She throws her arms in the air again. "I'm seventeen!" she exclaims and then shimmies away, hips swaying.

I glance around, getting my bearings. Dawn hasn't arrived yet. Neither has Mari, who Julie told me was coming. Emily and Stacey are sharing a lawn chair at the edge of the patio, Stacey's arm draped over Emily's shoulders. They've made up, obviously. They're sitting with some of their geeky Journalism friends - Rick Chow and his group. Rick gives me a dirty look when he sees me staring in their direction. I thrust my nose in the air and look away. At least Julie didn't invite Howie Johnson. She thinks he's weird.

"I'm baaaaack!" Julie shouts, running up behind me and wrapping her arms around my waist.

"Are you drunk?" I ask her.

"She's been eating candy since six o' clock this morning," Julie's grandmother informs me. "Get off that girl, Juliebean. Your behavior is not very becoming of a young lady."

Julie blows a raspberry at her grandmother and then dashes off, tripping over her own feet and joining Paul in the pursuit of their dog.

I venture over to Emily and Stacey. Rick Chow gets up and walks away. Like I've ever done anything to him.

"Aren't you looking fancy," comments Emily.

I shrug, like it's no big thing. I'm wearing a dress I took from my mother's closet – a strapless mint green dress with a floral band around the middle. I curled my hair and clipped in silver barrettes. I also took a pair of my mother's diamond earrings, sparkly square-cut ones.

"I feel like a peasant," says Emily, who is wearing pastel plaid Bermuda shorts and a yellow polo shirt. "And you're one of the landed gentry."

"Huh?" I say and then decide I don't want to know. "Hi, Stace," I say, a bit stiffly. She never called me back.

"Hi, Grace," she replies, just as stiffly.

I stand awkwardly, overdressed in my cocktail dress, with Stacey focused on a point above my left shoulder. She's being dumb.

"Darling!" Paul wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me up.

"Get off me!" I shout and kick him in the shin. He lets me go.

"Don't even think about it!" warns Emily, glaring at him and looking furious.

Paul laughs.

I glance over at him. I don't even gasp when I do. Somehow, I am not surprised that he's wearing almost as much make up as Julie. Or that he's sprayed his hair with pink glitter.

"You look like an idiot," I tell him.

Julie swings into the center of our group, giggling. "It's his birthday gift to me!"

"That's fine, but do we all have to look at him?"

Paul puckers his lips and leans in. He's wearing glitter lip gloss.

I stick my finger in his face. "I will kill you," I promise.

Paul chuckles and scampers away.

"Your brother is some kind of fool," says Stacey.

"I know!" agrees Julie. "Who wants to karaoke?"

No one does.

Julie's cousin, Tuesday, has escaped her new fan club and wanders over to us. She's nineteen or twenty and attends Bryn Mawr. She looks exactly like Julie, Rachel, and Paul. Blonde hair, blue eyes, upturned nose. She has her short hair tucked into a green beret, silver hoops swinging from her ears. She's wearing black stilettos that would scare even my mother.

"Did someone say 'karaoke'?" she asks.

"No," replies Emily.

"They're all party poopers!" exclaims Julie. "Let's go set up!" She takes Tuesday's hand and they rush off, ducking inside the house through the open door, nearly knocking over Mrs. Bernstein.

Out in the yard, Paul, Pete, and Ross have linked arms and are skipping around.

"I thought Pete Black was banned," I say.

"Julie lifted the ban to spite Mary Anne," explains Emily.

Stacey looks annoyed.

"Mary Anne is actually not coming?" I ask Stacey.

"You don't understand – " Stacey begins.

"I understand Mary Anne's being a jerk," I interrupt. "Jeez." Then I walk off before Stacey can make the predictable excuses.

I join Erica, Kara Mauricio, Heather Epstein, and their group. Lauren Hoffman's seated in Robert Brewster's lap, an arm resting across his shoulders, feeding him olives with her free hand. I pull up a chair, crossing my ankles primly, and listen to an extremely long discussion about Mrs. Dowery the chemistry teacher's wig. I check the clock on the patio. Dawn is quite late.

Paul Stern comes over and attempts to sit on my lap. So I shake up my grape soda and spray it all over him.

"That guy's hilarious," laughs Heather as Paul runs off, covered in sticky purple soda.

I roll my eyes.

"Mari!" shouts Kara, sitting up in her chair and waving. She and Mari are tight at school.

I turn to see Mari step onto the patio. Julie's with her, an arm flung over Mari's shoulders, a microphone in her other hand. Tuesday follows after them, wheeling her karaoke machine, the second microphone shoved down the front of her black tank top.

"_Mari Drabek is in the house!"_ Julie announces into the microphone.

"Oh, God! Someone get the microphone away from her!" cries Pete Black.

"_Shove it, Pete Black! Or you will be banned. Again!" _says Julie. "_I want to thank everyone for coming to my sweet seventeen. Congratulations to you all for being friends with someone as awesome as me. You're welcome. Enjoy." _

"I literally cannot roll my eyes hard enough," says Erica.

"_I heard that!" _Julie says into her microphone. _"And for that, I will not be dedicating my first song to you, Erica Louise Blumberg."_

Erica cups her hands around her mouth. "That is not my middle name!" she shouts.

"_I don't care," _says Julie. She tips the microphone toward Mari, still trapped beneath Julie's arm. "_Would you like to say a few words about me?" _she asks.

Mari stares at her in a cold silence.

"_Fine. Get out of here." _Julie pushes Mari away. _"Now for my first of many selections for the afternoon, I will be singing a favorite of mine, a song I've sung for many years during my extensive musical training in the shower. Hit it, Tuesday!" _Julie strikes a pose and Tuesday pushes a button on her machine, then picks up a couple flashlights and flicks them on, waving the lights at Julie. It doesn't have much effect in the middle of the afternoon.

Music pours from the karaoke machine and Julie begins singing "Turn Back Time" by Cher. She twirls in a circle and screeches into the microphone.

Lauren Hoffman laughs so hard she falls off Robert's lap.

Kara leans toward me. "She's not serious, is she?"

I give her a look. "It's Julie," I reply. That's all the explanation anyone should need.

Paul grabs the second microphone from Tuesday's cleavage and joins Julie on the chorus. Their grandparents appear positively horrified.

My ears practically bleed.

"_Thank you! Thank you!" _Julie says when the song – mercifully – ends. _"Now for my next selection – "_

Mrs. Stern wrestles the microphone away from her.

"I think we've heard enough for now. It's time to eat."

"Don't worry," Julie tells us when her mother has unplugged the karaoke machine. "I have another surprise planned after lunch."

"Great," I say.

"Please don't sing again," begs Erica.

"It's better than that," promises Julie and then she rushes off, pushing through her party guests. "The birthday girl is served first!" she barks.

"Talk about a birthday monster," says a voice behind me. It's Stacey.

"She's waited for this day her entire life," I reply, somewhat testily.

"Why? Who waits to be seventeen?" says Stacey, wrinkling her nose. She relaxes her face. "Can we talk?" She takes my arm and pulls me away from the others, who are lining up to be served at the barbecue by a jolly Mr. Stern and a surly-looking Rachel.

"What is it?" I ask, crossing my arms. She owes me.

Stacey frowns and plays with a piece of blonde hair. "Look, Grace, I'm sorry. I guess I really ticked you off with that movie thing. I didn't mean to insult you. Honest, it was Mallory's idea to go. She asked me and Mary Anne to go with her and we didn't invite you because every time you're in the same room with Mallory, you look like you want to rip her head off."

"Mallory has no class."

"She's…" Stacey shrugs her shoulders. She knows Mallory is her pity friend. "Mary Anne and I felt badly about the whole thing. I should have apologized sooner, but…" Stacey's voice trails off.

In her own way, I think she's punishing me for Dawn.

"It's all right," I say. It's easier to look past and forgive.

Stacey smiles. She takes my arm in hers. "Let's eat," she says and leads me to the line.

I like that it's so simple.

We're in line, still arm in arm, when Dawn appears around the side of the house, wheeling Mary Anne's stolen bike. Stacey stiffens beside me, but doesn't drop my arm. She holds me like a shield. Or like a trophy she has won.

Dawn leans the bike against the house and hesitates before starting toward us.

"You're late," I admonish, pretending that I am not attached to Stacey.

"I wasn't sure if I was going to come," Dawn admits. "But I figured I should avoid incuring the wrath of Julie Stern."

Stacey sniffs beside me.

"What have I missed?" asks Dawn, ignoring Stacey.

"An auditory assault," I reply.

"Isn't that Mary Anne's bicycle?" asks Stacey. "She's been looking for it."

"I know," says Dawn. "I've been hiding it underneath Jeff's bed. The handlebars come off quite easily."

Stacey sniffs again.

Dawn's eyes flick to Stacey's and my linked arms. Then she gets into line behind us.

We cram onto the picnic benches. Stacey sits on one side of me and Dawn on the other. Pete and Paul sit across from us, but Emily forces her way between them. Ross Brown and Rick Chow have to fight off a couple other boys for the honor of sitting beside Tuesday. I don't get it. She looks _exactly_ like Julie. Julie just doesn't wear jeans that tight. Erica, Kara, Heather, and the other girls fill in the rest of the spots. Mari sits at the opposite end of the table. She hasn't so much as looked in my direction.

Julie pulls a dining chair to the head of the table. It's tied with balloons and crepe paper and a string of our origami birds. She sits down and adjusts her wreath. Mari says something to her and Julie replies, quite sharply, "No, we're not praying!"

"We're only permitted to celebrate Julie today," says Emily.

"Hey, Stacey…" begins Pete.

"Oh, my God!" cries Ross Brown. "If you even say Mary Anne's name I'm going to punch you in your ovaries, man!"

Tuesday chuckles. Ross looks quite pleased. He's such a geek.

Pete hangs his head.

"You are pathetic," Emily informs him, stabbing a deviled egg with her fork.

"I like your wreath," I call down to Julie.

"It's not a wreath," Julie replies, somewhat irritated. "It's a _corona radiata._"

I roll my eyes and flick my wrist toward her.

"What is that?" Dawn whispers to me.

"I don't know. Something from _Star Trek_?"

Paul snickers, which is quite the feat considering he's crammed an entire piece of barbecue chicken into his mouth.

I give him a disgusted look and begin cutting my chicken into tiny pieces.

Emily slaps him on the arm. "Paul Stern! That is sickening! When we're married, you're going to learn some table manners!"

I suck in my breath and stare her down. Emily smiles prettily at me. Luckily, it takes Paul at least five minutes to chew and swallow and he almost chokes in the process.

"My abhorrent table manners are one of the reasons we get divorced," Paul says.

"Why do you have to get him started?" I ask Emily.

Emily smiles again.

"But Grace is able to overlook my more repulsive habits because I have all your money. She marries me for my money, but that's okay because I marry her for her looks."

"Shut up," I tell him.

"What are you going to do when the money runs out?" asks Dawn, feeding the crazy. "Grace will blow through that fortune pretty fast. She's an expensive girl."

"By then we'll have the insurance money from her parents' accident," explains Paul.

"My parents are _dead_?" I demand.

"Yes. We think it was a paid hit. I've pissed off a lot of people during my days as a private investigator. Your parents were collateral damage. Sorry," Paul says and turns to Dawn. "We're going to live in Hawaii. I'm going to drive a red Ferrari and grow a mustache."

"I'm sorry – are you planning to grow up to be Magnum, P.I.?" asks Dawn.

"_Yeah_," replies Paul, rolling his eyes. "Obviously."

I throw my roll at him. "Shut up."

"Are you talking about me down there?" demands Julie, pounding her fists on the table. "Are you?"

"Is her birthday almost over?" says Stacey. "She's giving me a migraine."

"Just wait," says Paul with a sly grin.

That's not encouraging.

Mr. Stern comes over to the picnic table and stands behind Paul. "You need to go inside and take off those clothes and make up. You're disturbing your grandfather," he tells Paul.

Paul clutches the neckline of his camisole. "But Daddy – I feel beautiful!" he squeaks.

"You can wear your sister's clothes any other day of the year," replies Mr. Stern.

Julie bangs her fists on the table. "You're ruining my birthday!" she cries.

Mr. Stern doesn't care.

Paul goes inside. Thank goodness.

Julie forces us to go around the table and say what we like best about her. I say that I like her best when she's not talking.

When everyone's nearly finished eating, Tuesday gets up from the table and walks to the patio. I'm the only one paying attention. I twist in my seat to watch her. She drags the Sterns' stereo out from beneath a metal chair. She plugs it in. I turn around again to look at Julie, who has pushed back her chair. She climbs onto the chair and stands there, waiting. I can't even guess –

A blast of music comes from the patio. Julie hops onto the picnic table. As the music begins, she sticks out one arm and then the other.

"_You can dance! You can jive!_" blares from the patio. Julie begins to walk along the length of the picnic table, arms held in the air. She steps forward, then back, and spins. She dances the length of the table, dodging plates and cups, twirling with her arms outstretched.

"Julie! We're trying to eat!" protests Kara.

Julie ignores her and dances backward, moving her arms up and down. She spins on one foot, nearly knocking Rick Chow in the head with the other one.

"I am the Dancing Queen!" Julie shouts. "Young and sweet! Only seventeen!" Julie drops to her knees and crawls across the table. "See that girl! Watch that scene! Digging the Dancing Queen!" Everyone grabs their plates and cups, yanking them off the table before Julie crawls right over them. When she reaches the end of the table, she jumps up and does a back handspring.

It's kind of impressive.

Julie spins and spins.

Stacey leans toward me. "Oh, my God," she gasps, stifling a laugh.

I glance back at the patio. Mr. and Mrs. Stern are clapping and laughing while the Bernsteins' stare stone-faced. Rachel has turned her chair around, so she doesn't have to watch. Mrs. Stern's parents appear stunned.

Julie is rolling on the table when the song finally ends. She leaps onto her feet and thrusts her arms high in the air. "The Dancing Queen!" she shrieks and then bows.

"That was awesome!" shouts Pete and he starts applauding.

Julie beams.

Everyone joins in the applause, some less enthusiastically than others.

"That was mental," I tell Dawn.

"You're no fun," she replies and then puts her fingers in her mouth and whistles.

Stacey nudges me and then waves her finger in a circle by her ear.

_I know,_ I mouth.

"She's always wanted to do that," Emily tells us. "We've been practicing on my dining room table for months."

"Then why didn't you get up there?" I ask.

"I don't want to look like a lunatic!" scoffs Emily.

Speaking of lunatics…

Paul Stern races out of the house wearing a blue and black jumpsuit and a red wig. He runs around the yard with his arms held out, zooming around like an airplane.

"You think that's cute?" I ask Dawn.

"I think it's hysterical."

I roll my eyes.

After everyone's finally allowed to finish eating, Julie ushers us inside so she can open her presents. She drags her throne with her. She positions herself in front of the fireplace with the table of presents before her. I sit on the couch, again between Stacey and Dawn. Emily pulls a chair next to Julie's.

"Oh, my Gosh! I love it!" Julie screeches, pulling a cream-colored pea coat from its box. "Thank you, Grandma and Granddad!" Julie puts the coat on.

"Oh, my Gosh! I love it!" Julie shrieks, pulling a beige saddle bag out of its box. It has _JMS_ monogrammed in bright pink in a lower corner. "Thank you, Tuesday!" Julie slings the bag over her shoulder.

"Oh, my Gosh! I love it!" Julie shouts, pulling a red and gold silk scarf out of a bag. "Thank you, Kara!" She winds the scarf around her neck.

It goes on like that for a very long time.

"Oh, my Gosh!" Julie cries. She is now wearing two tank tops, a belt, five bracelets, a pom-pom hat, and the crotchless panties, plus the pea coat, the scarf, and saddle bag. She pulls a stack of comic books out of an old cereal box. "A bunch of comic books that Paul already read!" she exclaims and then throws the comic books at Paul.

He isn't the only one to get their gift thrown at them. Julie isn't pleased when she discovers that Pete and Ross gave her a bag full of Irish Spring and a disposable razor.

"Let them eat cake!" Julie yells when she's opened the last gift and thoroughly doused herself in the perfume Stacey gave her.

"Julie is the most appreciative person I have ever encountered," comments Dawn as we follow Julie, still decked out in her birthday booty, into the dining room. Mrs. Bernstein trails after her, trying to pull off the panties. "I never thought I'd hear someone scream like that over a _Star Wars_ book," says Dawn, which is what she gave Julie. "She does like _Star Wars_, right?"

"I have no idea." All that geeky stuff is the same to me.

"I'll give you your present later," we hear Emily tell Julie ahead of us.

Dawn elbows me. "What's that supposed to mean?" she hisses.

I roll my eyes. "It means she bought Julie something with a unicorn on it," I answer.

Julie's birthday cake is a pink monstrosity. It's three layers in three different shades of pink with white ribbons and sugared flowers running down the sides. Mrs. Stern sticks the candles into the cake and lights them. We sing to Julie and she blows out her seventeen candles with a single breath.

"I always knew you were full of hot air!" exclaims Pete.

Julie glares at him, still ticked about the soap.

"What did you wish for?" asks Stacey.

"I can't tell you that," replies Julie, crossly. "It won't come true."

"She wished to be in a Corrie Lalique music video," says Emily.

"Emily!" Julie barks. "How did you know that?"

"You were talking about it last night."

Julie huffs and puffs.

"You thought that might come true?" I chuckle.

Julie throws a candle at me.

I'm standing around eating cake and ice cream with Dawn and Erica when Paul sidles up to me, still wearing his jumpsuit and red wig. I pretend not to see him.

"I'm sorry your parents had to die," he tells me.

I roll my eyes.

"You must be strong for the children."

"You have a sick fantasy life," I say.

Dawn chuckles. "There are children?" she asks.

"Of course," replies Paul, cramming a huge bite of cake into his mouth. "Twins. If they're boys we're naming them Remus and Romulus. And if it's a boy and a girl, Jean-Luc and Beverly, of course."

"What are you talking about?" I demand. He is nuts. "I think you'd be better off sticking with Emily. Let her birth Remulus and Romus."

Paul grins. His teeth are pink. He leans closer. "If you want to know what a girl will look like when she's older take a look at her mother." Paul jerks his head toward Mrs. Bernstein, who's standing by the dining room table waving around a cake-smeared knife and looking very cranky. Paul makes a face. "No thanks," he says, seriously. "But you're going to look _really_ _hot_ when you're old. Now, when you get _old _old, like grandma old, I might keep you and I might trade you in. The odds are in your favor though."

"Why don't you just skip to the end and date my grandmother now?"

"Is she single?"

"Stop talking to me." I turn and walk away.

Dawn goes to gargle in the bathroom after finishing the tiny scoop of ice cream she allowed Mr. Stern to serve her. I join Stacey in the living room where she's talking to some of our friends from the swim team. On the other side of the room, Mari's seated on the fireplace between Kara Mauricio and Kathleen Lopez, gesturing wildly with her hands, face animated, recounting some long-winded story. Everyone laughs along with her. She's doing what I call Putting On Mari's Public Face. She refuses to catch my eye. She's frozen me out.

"Great party, huh?" asks Erica, squeezing in between Stacey and me. She licks frosting off her fork. Dawn is with her, carrying a bottle of ginger ale.

"It's very Julie," replies Stacey, which seems the most generous answer. "Where's Claudia?" she asks. Wherever Erica goes, Claudia is sure to follow. And vice versa.

Erica pushes her bangs out of her eyes, so we catch her eye roll. "She met a guy at work. She practically lives at his apartment."

I gape at her, scandalized. We are only seventeen years old! Dropping out of school is one thing, but living in sin is something else entirely.

Stacey reaches out and pushes my jaw upward. "I bet Claudia's parents love that," she says to Erica.

Erica shrugs. "My mom's helping her get emancipated from her parents. She's kind of living in our rec room. My parents would prefer she wasn't." Erica shrugs again.

"Is she paying your mother's legal fees in Mallomars?" asks Stacey.

Dawn snorts ginger ale out of her nose.

Stacey gives her a disgusted look and walks off.

Erica watches her go, then turns back to Dawn and me. She drops her voice. "Hey, when are the adults leaving so we can start drinking?" she asks.

"This isn't that kind of party," I tell her.

"But Paul said – "

"Paul lied." I take Dawn's arm and lead her away from Erica's negative influence.

Julie's grandparents force her to sit down at the piano and play for everyone, showing off what she's learned in the lessons they paid for. Julie is a terrible piano player. Eventually, Paul shoves her off the bench and plays instead. He is much better, which I would never tell him. Julie tires of the attention not being on her and slams the piano cover down on Paul's fingers.

I approach Mari, but she pretends I am invisible. She follows Ross Brown into the kitchen, talking about some television show. I think she likes him, but everyone knows Ross only dates blondes.

Julie appears wearing her roller skates and leads a large group outside. She climbs onto the picnic table, but Mrs. Stern sees her and makes her come down.

The hours pass and darkness falls and the guests trickle out little by little, armed with their goody bags and commemorative tank tops. By eleven o' clock, Julie has sung her way through the collected works of Cher, Bette Midler, and ABBA. Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein went home long ago. Mr. and Mrs. Stern and Rachel have gone to bed. Julie's grandparents have returned to their motor home. The party has dwindled significantly, but still, Julie dances on, on top of the coffee table, microphone in hand, belting out Corrie Lalique's latest hit. She sounds somewhat better when she's not screeching. Her cousin Tuesday is grinding against Ross Brown, who's wearing her beret. Paul has Erica on his back, her legs wrapped tight around him as he spins in a circle. They almost trample over Dawn, who's face down on the floor, asleep. Emily's also asleep, sprawled across the armchair, Julie's flower wreath askew on her head. I am seated on the couch with Lauren Hoffman's legs flung over me. She's asleep on top of Stacey, who may or may not be asleep, too. She sometimes answers when I speak to her.

"I've had seventeen sodas today!" shrieks Julie, raising her arms above her head. There's a grape soda in her left hand, the microphone in the right. "And I'm seventeen years old!"

Dawn jerks awake on the floor.

"You're also insane," I inform Julie, who can't hear me over the wailing she's doing into the microphone.

"Is her birthday over yet?" Stacey mumbles from the other end of the couch.

Julie leaps off the coffee table, doing the splits in the air, which would be impressive if she didn't land on Dawn. Julie picks herself up and rushes to the stereo and puts in another tape. The music starts.

"Not the ABBA tape again," I groan. We've already heard it twice.

Julie dances over to me, arms outstretched. She shakes her hips and wiggles around. "Get up," she orders.

Sighing, I shove Lauren's legs off me and stand up. Julie continues to dance in front of me. She takes my hands and pulls me away from the couch. She lifts my arm and twirls underneath it.

"Come on. Dance," she says, waving her arms in front of my face.

"I don't want to dance."

"You're so frigid, Miss Blume," she says. She puts her hands on my waist and starts moving me. "One day, some guy's going to want to sex you up."

"_Excuse me_?"

Julie grabs my hand, leaving her other hand on my waist. "Let's tango!" she shouts and begins marching me across the living room. "I've seen it on television," she explains and twirls me around. "I'm going to lead, even though you're taller. You're wearing the dress."

I roll my eyes and allow her to march me back across the living room. And dip me. And spin me a few more times. It is her birthday. I can murder her tomorrow.

Paul tries to cut in, but I kick him in the shin. He's changed into Rachel's old prom dress. His wig fell in the punch bowl hours ago.

"Loosen up!" Dawn hisses in my ear. She's off the floor and dancing with Erica. "You look like you left the hanger in your dress."

"Thanks," I reply, sarcastically and let Julie dip me clear to the floor.

When Julie grows bored with me, she pushes me back onto the couch. I land on Lauren Hoffman's head. Lauren moans, but stays asleep. Robert Brewster ditched her and I don't blame him.

Julie, Paul, and Tuesday jump onto the coffee table and begin a choreographed routine to "Dancing Queen". The coffee table wobbles beneath their combined weight. And still they carry on, rolling their hips, pumping their arms, spinning on their toes.

At precisely 12:01, Mr. and Mrs. Stern shut the party down.


	59. Chapter 59

Julie lets herself in through my back gate Friday in the late morning. She's returned to her old self – no tight clothes or make up, no crown of flowers. She's wearing dark rinse capri pants and new navy and white running shoes and a red tank top covered in sparkly starbursts, all birthday gifts from her parents. She has Kara's red and gold silk scarf looped through the belt loops of her pants, knotted at the side and swaying with her walk. She's also wearing the green and silver beaded bracelets from Rick Chow, the star-shaped barrettes from Kathleen, and her flower pendant. The monogrammed saddle bag swings from her shoulder.

"Good morning, Miss Blume!" she chirps, happily, strolling toward me.

I shield my eyes with my hand. "How are you up and about?" I ask. I'm sitting on the edge of the swimming pool, legs dangling into the cool water, rubbing sunscreen on my pale shoulders.

"I'm an early bird," Julie replies, dropping down beside me and pulling off her new running shoes. "What's the story, morning glory?"

"Huh?"

"Nevermind," she says, dipping her feet into the water. She pulls her saddle bag onto her lap. She opens the top flap. It's already crammed full with spiral notebooks and paperbacks and Julie's new pink leather wallet (from Lauren and Robert). Julie pulls out a white envelope and hands it to me. On the front, in pink glitter ink is neatly printed: _Grace A. Blume._

"How official," I comment and tear open the envelope. The front of the card has birds and hearts on it. Very old lady-ish.

"Grandma made me write all my thank you notes this morning before she left," Julie explains.

I open the card. The inside reads:

_Dear Grace,_

_Thank you very much for coming to my party. Thank you for the Corrie Lalique beach towel, posters, and especially for the crotchless underwear. It meant so much to me that you could be there on my special day._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Julie Stern_

_P.S. Tell your mom to feel free to steal lingerie for me anytime. I wear a medium in underwear and a 34B in bras._

"I added the last part while Grandma was in the bathroom. She thinks you're super weird."

"I bet she does," I reply. I think Grandma van der Sloot should be more concerned about her own grandchildren, such as Paul the budding transvestite. But that's just me. "She already left?"

"Yeah, they wanted to stay longer, but Tuesday has a Renaissance Faire to go to this weekend."

"Wow," I say because I really don't know what else to say to _that._ "I bet you wish Tuesday was your sister."

Julie looks at me, brow furrowed. "Why would I wish that?" she asks. "Rachel is my sister. I don't need another one."

"You and Paul and Tuesday are alike. I'm sorry to break it to you, but Rachel's kind of a bitch."

Julie waves me off. "Rachel's a crankypants, always has been, always will be. You learn to tune her out." Julie lifts the silver charm at her throat. "Rachel gave me this. It's a water lily. That's my birth flower."

"Pretty," I say. I watch Julie kick her feet in the water. "So, Julie," I begin and she glances at me. "Tell me, what's the big deal about turning seventeen?"

"It's the last best year," she answers, simply.

I gaze at her a moment. "Huh?" I finally say, quite eloquently.

"It's the last year you get to be a kid," Julie explains. "When you turn eighteen, you're an adult and you have to start doing boring adult things. You have to be responsible and get a job and pay taxes and vote. It's all downhill from eighteen. You become dull and all bogged down with adult stuff. This is my last great year."

"That's…horrible, Julie."

Julie shrugs and stands up. "It depends on how you look at it. You look at everything as the glass is half empty," she tells me. She dries her feet on my clean towel and then pulls on her socks and running shoes. "I wish I could stay, but I have a lot more stops to make." She slings her saddle bag over her shoulder. "Catch you later, Miss Blume."

"Bye, Julie," I reply. "Wait – hey, Julie!"

Julie turns around.

"Do you remember telling me last night that someday a guy will want to sex me up?"

Julie's jaw drops. "I never said that! You're gross, Grace." And Julie leaves the yard, laughing to herself.

I slide Julie's thank you note inside its envelope and toss it beside my now-damp towel. Then I wade into the water and duck underneath. When I pop up again, Dawn's standing at the pool edge, leaning against a boy's racing bike.

I shriek in surprise.

"Sorry," says Dawn, not sounding sorry at all. "I passed Julie on the street. She said you were back here. She gave me this." Dawn waves a white envelope in the air.

I push the wet hair out of my face. "You startled me," I say, needlessly. "What happened to Mary Anne's bike?"

Dawn looks down at the neon orange bike at her side. "I rented this from a Pike triplet. I went by Julie's house this morning and guess what? Stacey McGill stole Mary Anne's bike back!"

I gasp in mock horror. "How _dare_ she steal the bike you stole fair and square?"

"I know!" shouts Dawn. Then she grins.

"Want to swim?" I ask, treading the water. I don't think I have to ask. She's wearing a bright yellow bikini top with her white gauze skirt.

Dawn gives me the Boy Scout salute. "Always be prepared," she says and peels off her skirt. She jumps into the pool.

We swim around for about an hour, splashing each other and talking about the party last night. Every so often, Dawn throws her arms into the air and yells, "I'm seventeen!" at the top of her lungs. I laugh so hard I can't swim straight.

When the sun gets too hot, we go inside, passing Marta in the kitchen, scrubbing the shelves inside the refrigerator. I grab a pineapple soda and a bottle of apple juice from the door, pretending not to see her. Then Dawn and I go upstairs. Dawn lolls around the bedroom, reading my magazines while I jump in the shower. I quickly wash the chlorine out of my hair and off my body. Then I dress and rejoin Dawn, a towel wrapped turban-like around my head.

"Here comes the incomparable Grace Blume, make up-free and smelling like a mango," announces Dawn, rolling onto her side on the floor.

"You're bizarre," I tell her and sit down on the bed.

"Your mom called while you were in the shower."

I freeze.

"My mom called?" I finally ask.

"Yeah. I answered it. I hope that's okay. She wants you to call her back."

I don't respond for a moment.

Darn. Darn. Darn.

"No, that's all right," I say, easily. Mom will murder me. She must be furious. How do I spin this in my favor?

"Are you okay?" asks Dawn, making a face.

"Of course." I fan myself with my hand. "I'm hot from the shower. I should call Mom back." I reach for the phone and dial Mom's office number. When Shelley-or-Camille answers, I ask to speak to my mother. Shelley-or-Camille puts me on hold for a couple minutes before finally Mom picks up.

"Fay Blume speaking," Mom says in a serious, business-like tone.

"It's me," I reply.

"That moron didn't tell me it was you on the line," Mom says, crossly. "I wouldn't have kept you waiting so long. I thought it was one of those idiots from marketing. Don't even get me started on them. They have successfully crawled onto my bad side today."

"No, it's just me."

"Dawn said you were in the shower. Why are you showering at noon? And why is Dawn in your bedroom?"

I consider it for a moment.

"Oh, Julie and Dawn dropped by while I was in the pool," I tell her. It's not a lie at all.

Mom makes a noise in her throat and then starts yelling at someone. "I don't like blue cheese! I told you honey mustard! Take it back!" she barks.

"That girl's going to file a complaint with human resources."

"Oh, boo, like I care," replies Mom. "Why is everyone conspiring to ruin my day? It started off so well, too. Grace, I called to share my good news with you. I got a call this morning and I'm going to be interviewed for an article in Money & Finance magazine!"

"Really? That's excellent, Mom!" I cry, even though I have no idea what that is. It sounds boring.

"It's an article about women in finance or something. I have to clear it with some people first, of course, but the reporter wants to come by in the next week or two."

"How old are you going to be this time?"

"I was thinking forty-seven."

"That's not too greedy or implausible."

"I know and – for God's sake! I have to go!"

Mom hangs up on me.

Nice.

Dawn cocks an eyebrow at me. "Did your mom just hang up on you?"

I flick my wrist toward the phone. "She does that sometimes. She has a very important job."

"I think she's funny," says Dawn.

"She's going to be in a magazine," I tell Dawn, nonchalantly. "Money & Finance magazine. That's why she called."

"Really? That's my favorite magazine!"

"Really?"

"No!" laughs Dawn. "You're so gullible!"

My mouth instantly turns downward. I am _not_ gullible.

Dawn misses the look. She rises to a sitting position and folds her legs Indian-style, resting her hands on her knees. "So…" she begins. "We've been quite lax lately. When are we going to start sleuthing again?"

I wrinkle my nose. "I'm tired of that," I reply. I know all I want to know. And more. Aunt Margolo's dead. Let her be dead. Let everything else be buried along with her.

Dawn looks disappointed. "Oh…" she says, a bit dejectedly. "But I had a new breakthrough. Well, not really, exactly. But I found something." Dawn opens her woven purse and takes out a ring. A ring with a silver band and a pear-shaped peridot. Aunt Margolo's ring.

"Where did you find it?"

Dawn extends the ring to me. "I found it in a potpourri dish in Mom's bathroom. She doesn't know I have it. Yet." Dawn grins and her blue eyes glimmer with mischief. "I intend to wear that ring until I get a reaction. Mom's going to have to pry it off my finger and I'm going to fight the whole way down."

I take the ring and examine it. Engraved on the inside of the band is: _For Margolo._ Just like Mom's. I hand the ring back to Dawn.

"I wore it over to Granny's this morning," Dawn tells me, slipping the ring onto her right hand. "She didn't recognize the ring. She said it was too long ago. She doesn't remember Mom having it. Then I took it over to your grandmother's house. She seemed more annoyed that I was bothering her than interested in the ring."

I snort. Figures.

"She said I could keep it and shut the door in my face."

"It's nothing personal. She's in one of her moods."

"I didn't take it personally at all. I know she's a bit batty." Dawn cocks her eyebrow at me, daring me to protest or argue. I do not give her the benefit of a reaction. "You promised you were going to find out about the abortion," Dawn says, jumping subjects. "You promised you'd take care of it."

I shrug. "It didn't work out. Sorry."

Dawn watches me, studying me, her mouth set in a firm line. Then suddenly, her eyes widen, face shining, lighting on a realization. Her mouth turns into a sly grin. "Does Mari's mother work in some kind of clinic?" she asks.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Dawn smirks. "She does, doesn't she? Wow. Wouldn't the kids at youth group be interested to hear _that_? I doubt Mari could make anyone sit by the trash can ever again."

"You can't tell!" I protest, shrilly. I regain my composure. "Not that there's any truth to your crazy talk."

The smirk doesn't leave Dawn's face. "I figured Mari was all uptight about _something._ So, what does Mari's mom do?"

I cross my legs and fold my hands very primly over my knee. I start to ignore her, but reconsider. I promised Mari I would never tell. I have always kept her secret. And she has always kept mine.

But maybe it's in telling that I can continue to protect it.

"She's some kind of counselor," I tell Dawn. "She convinces girls to have abortions."

Dawn rolls her eyes. "I sincerely doubt that's what she does, Grace." The smirk vanishes. "But don't fret, I won't tell anyone. I'll pretend to be clueless, even though it'd be kind of nice to drop that bomb on Mari." Dawn waves her hand in the air. "But I won't. I'll keep her secret. I figured there was something going on with the two of you. Mari quite obviously snubbed you last night and quite obviously made a point to talk to everyone _but_ you. She even cornered me and acted really friendly. So, what, you asked about illegal abortions and Mari flipped her lid?"

I shrug, like it doesn't bother me. "Something like that. She'll get over it." I just haven't figured out how to bring her around. Mari isn't like other people. She can't be bribed with things. "And Mari _is_ friendly. She's having a bad summer, that's all."

"Loyal to the end," says Dawn and the smirk returns.

"I'm a loyal person."

"I don't doubt that," says Dawn. She checks the clock. "I have to head out," she says, rising to her feet. "Erica's driving me to Stamford this afternoon. She says Claudia's new boyfriend can sneak us into a bar! Want to come?"

"To a bar? No."

"It's not like that!" Dawn protests. "We're going to see this really cool band. Okay, it's actually Claudia's boyfriend's band, but Erica says they're fantastic. Will you come?"

"No way!" What kind of fantastic band plays in a bar in the middle of the afternoon? "Who else is going? Lauren Hoffman?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"You'll all be in jail by five o' clock. Good luck."

"You're so stuffy, Grace. You need to loosen up. I'll call you when Mom blows a gasket over the ring." Dawn smiles and waggles her fingers at me. She lifts her arms in the air. "I'm seventeen!" she shrieks. Then she's gone.

I return to the bathroom and dry my hair and get ready for the rest of the day. Mom calls back, ranting and raving about something I can't comprehend, then tells me not to eat dinner because we're going to Pietro's tonight. Then she gets another call and abruptly ends ours.

It's the usual routine.

I flop on the bed and call Stacey, but the answering machine picks up. I call Emily, but the line is busy. I call Julie, but Rachel answers, so I hang up on her. I call Emily again, but the phone rings and rings until the machine clicks on. I sigh and rise from the bed.

I wonder when Erica and Dawn became such good friends.

I change into the tennis dress Mom bought for me and grab my tennis gear. I drive to the Bainbridge Estates because there's nothing else to do. When I pull into the driveway, I see Gran standing on the front porch with Mr. O'Hare from next door. Mr. O'Hare's an eternal bachelor. He owns a lot of birds.

Gran's smartly dressed in a white pantsuit and her carrot-colored hair is curled and bouncy-looking. She has her arms crossed over her chest, but throws her head back and laughs at something Mr. O'Hare has said.

I narrow my eyes at them while stepping out of the car. Does she intend to bed the entire neighborhood?

Gran shoots an arm into the air and waves when she spots me, still laughing gaily. Apparently, her mood has improved since Dawn saw her this morning. Mr. O'Hare waves too, quite jauntily, and then heads down the walk, crossing into his own yard.

"What's so funny?" I demand, a bit sourly.

"Pardon?" replies Gran. She appears to be in rather buoyant spirits. "Oh, Will told a joke about birds and flowers. It was quite amusing."

"Were you on a date?"

"With Will O'Hare?" Gran replies, voice rising slightly. "Why would I go on a date with Will O'Hare? He's an Irish Catholic." Gran turns and heads for the front door. "And I don't like birds."

"Why are you all dressed up then?" I ask, following her inside. She's usually just in slacks and casual blouses. She only dresses up for church. "Dawn said she came to see you earlier."

"Yes, she did and I was running late for a doctor's appointment. Then I went to the hair salon and to the bank, if you must know, you nosy girl." Gran shuts and locks the door behind us. "You have perfect timing. I only just arrived home and Will came over to return the screwdriver he borrowed. He's always borrowing things from me. I think he's building something." Gran sweeps out of the foyer and toward the living room, shedding her white suit jacket on the way.

Oh, good grief.

"Gran, I don't think he's building anything. Has it ever occurred to you that Mr. O'Hare might _like_ you?"

Gran tosses the jacket over the back of an armchair before sinking down onto the couch. "We've lived next door to each other for over forty years. I'd hope he liked me. I'm a very good neighbor." Gran kicks off her heels and rubs the arch of her right foot.

"Gran, that's not what I meant," I tell her. How this woman ever managed to conduct and conceal an extramarital affair is beyond me. "Do you like Mr. O'Hare?"

"I suppose so. He's a nice man."

"It looked like you were flirting with him."

"Certainly not! I wouldn't know how to flirt if I wanted to," says Gran, slipping her heels back on. "I was simply behaving like myself," she informs me.

One of her selves, maybe.

I decide to let the subject drop. It isn't important anyhow.

I settle into the armchair across from her. "Mom called me from work earlier today," I begin. "She's going to be interviewed for a magazine article. For Money and Finance magazine. It's kind of a big deal."

Gran stares at me, expressionless, and says nothing.

"When the article comes out, I'll bring you a copy," I tell her.

"I know Fay. Why would I want to read about her?" replies Gran.

I'm not even surprised by her response. I'm not even that disappointed. It's more of the same.

"I thought it was pretty cool," I say and from there I admit defeat. "So, Dawn came to see you this morning?"

"Yes, she found an old ring and thought I would be interested for some reason. Certainly, Dawn will let you have the ring if you want it."

"No, it's hers now. How do you think Mrs. Spier got the ring? It's Aunt Margolo's. Dawn showed it to me."

"Margolo probably gave it to her. That girl was always giving her things away," Gran says, not sounding too concerned or interested. Not caring.

"Why?"

"I suppose she thought it would make people like her. She was much too concerned with being popular, just like Fay. Although, Fay was much better at social climbing than Margolo. It's because Fay is so self-centered. Fay never met a reflective surface she didn't like. Margolo never had that degree of self-confidence." Gran sighs. "I wish you would talk about something else. This subject bores me."

I ignore that last comment. "Do you have anything else of Aunt Margolo's?"

Gran sighs again. "Elsa stored a few boxes of her junk in the attic. They're much too heavy for me to carry down two flights of stairs to toss out. There isn't anything valuable in them. If you want something of Margolo's, why don't you take that ring back from Dawn? The next time I see Rita, I'll ask her to tell Dawn to return it."

"Dawn can keep it."

"If you want a birthstone ring that badly, I'll buy you one for Christmas. Or I'll write you a check and you can pick it out yourself. Hopefully, you'll be more careful with it than you were with Fay's."

I frown at her, but Gran doesn't appear to notice.

"May I look through her boxes?" I ask.

"No, you may not. And I am finished with this conversation," says Gran and she presses her lips together, very tight, into a thin, straight line, as if to demonstrate that the conversation really is over and she will not say another word.

I don't want to spoil what remains of her good mood, so I say, "I came by the other day and you weren't home. Dawn said she saw you at the A&P. What were you doing there?"

"Shopping," replies Gran. "It's hardly anything remarkable."

"But that's what Brigitta's for."

"Why does everyone think I am not capable of doing things for myself?" says Gran, annoyed. "And Dawn saw me at the store? She didn't say hello to me."

And after she couldn't be rid of Dawn fast enough this morning. I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

"Dawn said you were talking to Mrs. Blumberg and Erica. She didn't want to interrupt. What were you talking to Mrs. Blumberg about?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but I don't recall. Susannah always makes me talk to her when I see her in public. She and Fay always thought I was awfully amusing."

"You don't like Mrs. Blumberg?" I think Mrs. Blumberg is all right, as far as adults go.

"Susannah has greatly improved with age, which is more than I can say for Fay. Would you like something to drink, Grace?"

"No, thank you," I answer and this time I take the hint. "Do you want to do something?" I ask her. "Do you want to go to Washington Mall?" Dawn goes to the mall with her grandmother. I can go with mine.

"I order my clothes from catalogues," answers Gran. "Why? Is there something you need to purchase? I have plenty of catalogues here." Gran starts looking around, checking underneath the coffee tables.

"Forget it," I tell her. "Do you want to go to the Stoneybrook Tennis Club? We have a membership now. I need to take my I.D. picture still. No one will go with me." It's true. I have yet to convince Dawn or Julie or Emily to accompany me. None of them enjoy tennis.

"You can play tennis here for free," Gran points out. "I don't charge you."

"They have racquetball courts. Mom plays racquetball."

Gran chuckles. I don't understand what she finds amusing about that.

"All right," she agrees, rising from the couch. "But I must change." She flips her suit jacket over her shoulder and starts toward the staircase, a kick in her step, buoyant as her shifting mood.

I will never understand her.

But she remains jubilant the rest of the afternoon.

When I return home, I shower again and fix my hair and reapply my make-up. I dress with care, selecting several outfits before settling on the navy blue tube dress from the Hamptons. I cinch the drawstring waist and spin before the mirror, the flare skirt twirling in the air. Then I sit at my desk and wait for my parents to arrive. I take out my binder and go over my lists, meticulously scanning and adding. Inside the front flap, I find the torn pieces of Gran's photograph, all blacked out save for snatches of her carrot-colored hair and porcelain skin. I shove it back down, completely hidden behind the flap. I don't throw it away. I want it near, a reminder. But I hide it deep with everything else.

Downstairs, the garage door slams shut and my parents' voices carry. I run my hand over the flap of the binder, then I close it, and bury it inside my desk drawer.

Mom's footsteps sound on the stairs and she swings around the doorway and into my bedroom. "Splendid, you're ready!" she exclaims, coming into the room. She gives me a strange half-smile. "This toy was hanging on the front door," she informs me and holds up Paul Stern's redheaded doll, dangling from a string in Mom's hand. "I believe it's from your admirer." Mom winks at me.

I grab the doll out of her hand and with one swift motion toss it into the trashcan.

"Ahhh…" says Mom. "Was that supposed to be you?"

"I hope not," I say. "He wrapped a noose around my neck." Then my entire body grows hot, remembering that such a thing isn't so funny.

Mom misunderstands. She continues to smirk. "But look! He attached a note." Mom pulls a white envelope out of her pocket and holds it out to me. "It's a limerick. I already read it."

"Mom!" I cry.

"Well, it's addressed to 'the redheaded vixen'. I have red hair, too."

The note goes straight into the trash.

"You're so wicked, Grace," Mom scolds with a laugh. "I think it's adorable that that bizarre little boy is trying to woo you."

It's odd for her to describe Paul as "little". He's a good three or four inches taller than the both of us.

"You want me to date Paul Stern?"

"Absolutely not!" Mom laughs. "But I admire his efforts, no matter how misguided they might be. He has a rather skewed idea of romance, doesn't he? The limerick is sort of clever though, not that you bothered to read it. You know, when your father proposed to me, he said he needed me more than he needed air."

I stick my finger down my throat and gag.

"Well, I thought it was romantic," says Mom. She comes nearer to the desk. "What's this?" she asks, glancing down at what I was pretending to look at when she came in. It's the Smith brochure and application. "You sent away for this?"

"Gran did."

Mom picks up the application and flips through it. "She's already filled most of it out for you!" Mom exclaims. She rolls her eyes and drops the application back on the desk. "She certainly is persistent."

"I guess," I say and slide the Smith stuff underneath some magazines.

Dad strolls into the room and stops beside Mom. "Good evening, Grace," he greets me.

"Hi, Dad," I reply, stiffly. I'm still miffed at him. I can hold a grudge.

"Aren't you proud of your mother?" Dad asks and wraps an arm around Mom. He kisses her left temple.

"Of course," I say and manage to hide my irritation that he thinks I wouldn't be proud or happy. I guess because I'm so strange and all. "I've told everyone."

"It isn't that big of a deal. I'm hardly on the cover," says Mom, rolling her eyes, but not sounding convincing. Gran's right. She isn't a very good actress. "Let me freshen up. I'll meet you downstairs." Mom slips out from beneath Dad's arm and leaves the room.

Dad lingers, giving me a curious small smile. I turn back to my desk and act like I'm busy, shuffling magazines and moving things around.

"What were you and Fay talking about?" Dad asks me.

None of his darn business.

"Poetry," I answer, haughtily.

"Poetry?" Dad repeats, bewildered.

Annoyed, I hold up the Smith brochure.

"Smith has a poetry major?" asks Dad.

I give him an exasperated look. Do I look like a poet to him?

"You want to go to Smith?" Dad tries again.

"Not particularly." I consider tossing the brochure and application in the trashcan, too, to join Paul Stern's postcard and doll. But if Gran found out, she'd just send away for another one.

"I went to the University of Maine," says Dad.

"Maine sucks." Maine is where they threatened to send me after The Incident. They were going to make me live with Great Aunt Muriel and go to this stuffy girl's prep school outside the village. I'm shocked, now, that they didn't follow through. Dad would have liked that, I imagine, to be rid of me so soon.

"Is there a reason you're being so hostile toward me?" Dad inquires.

"Mom and I already had this conversation."

"I know. But unlike Fay, I don't believe everything you say."

Oh, so now I'm a liar, too?

I glare at him.

"I've tried to be patient and understanding, but I'm growing tired of your bad attitude, Grace Blume," Dad tells me, his voice turning stern. This must be what he sounds like when he reprimands people at work. It's foreign to me. "You need to simply come out and say what you want to say to me instead of behaving like a child by giving me snotty looks."

"Why are you picking on me?" I demand.

"How am I picking on you?" Dad asks, crossly.

"You're always saying mean things about me."

Dad knits his brow together. "I've never said anything mean to you," he protests.

"Not to my face."

"Grace, I have no clue what you're speaking of. Will you just tell me what I said that was allegedly 'mean'?"

"You know what you said." Apparently, he says so many cruel things about me that he can't keep them straight.

"Refresh my memory, please," says Dad.

I narrow my eyes and continue to glare at him.

Dad stares at me and then sighs. He turns and strides out of the room, calling out, "Hurry up, Fay! What could you possibly be doing in there? We're going to lose our reservation!"

I figure he's given up and decided to leave me alone, but instead, he returns to my bedroom. He comes to stand beside the desk again. "I apologize for whatever I said that you construed to be mean. And I'm even sorrier that you don't feel you can come out and tell me what's the matter." Then he walks out of the room again.

What kind of an apology is _that_?

Mom sweeps through the doorway, fastening an earring into her earlobe. She's changed her outfit and restyled her hair. "Come on then," she says with a smile, "before Hal has a coronary."

I stand reluctantly and follow after her. It's too bad that my father has managed to completely ruin my good mood.

Dad's waiting downstairs, twirling the car keys around his finger. Mom links her arm through his and leads him toward the kitchen. I move slowly behind them.

"Oh, wait, we have a message," Mom says, pausing by the answering machine. "Maybe it's Pietro's canceling our reservation." Mom laughs and presses the play button.

But it isn't Pietro's. Instead, Gran's voice fills the room.

"This is Allison McCracken," she says, as if none of us can recognize her voice. "And I am telephoning for Harold. Harold, will you please call me at your earliest convenience? I have something of the utmost importance to discuss with you. Oh, and Fay-Fay? Grace told me about your magazine interview. Aren't you important?"

And then Gran hangs up.

My mother grits her teeth and clenches her fists so tightly that when she unfurls them, her palms are streaked with blood.


	60. Chapter 60

Saturday morning, I meet up with Sheila McGregor and Andi Gentile at the Stoneybrook Tennis Club. They're both whores, but when I ran into them at the club yesterday they invited me to play doubles with them and Elise Coates. We all play on the SHS team. I accepted, even though Sheila made a snotty remark about me bringing my grandmother along.

Elise and I trounce them in each set, which isn't much of a difficulty. Sheila and Andi aren't such hot tennis stars. Afterward, we sit around the club café, pretending to be friends. Then Sheila and Andi leave, presumably to whore around town, and Elise and I play racquetball together for an hour. We part ways when Elise heads to one of the club pools.

I've just pulled off Essex and am headed toward my neighborhood when I spot a familiar figure walking down the street, headed in the same direction, struggling to carry an overstuffed tote bag over her shoulder. I would recognize her anywhere with those loose pigtails hanging down her back, tied with bright yellow ribbons.

I pull to the curb and roll down the passenger side window. "Do you want a ride?" I ask.

Mary Anne startles and glances over, her face instantly turning grumpy, but it softens. "Yeah, thanks," she says and I lean over and open the door for her. Mary Anne shoves her bag onto the floorboard and climbs into the Corvette, angling her legs awkwardly around her load. She pulls the door shut. I wait until she latches her belt, then steer the car back onto the street.

Mary Anne doesn't say anything.

"What's in the bag?" I ask.

"My quilting stuff," she answers. "Grandma and I have our quilting group on Saturdays. She had to meet someone, so I had to walk home." Mary Anne keeps her eyes straight ahead.

"Where's Stacey?"

"With her mom."

We fall silent.

Mary Anne can be such a pill.

"Jeez, Mary Anne – " I start.

"If you're going to lecture me about Julie's birthday, I don't want to hear it," Mary Anne breaks in. "I've been griped at enough."

"I wasn't going to lecture you," I reply. "About Julie or anything else."

"No, but you're going to gripe at me about Dawn. All anyone ever talks about is Dawn!" Mary Anne shouts and kicks the dashboard.

"Hey!" I shriek at her. "This is a Corvette! Do you want to get out and walk again?"

"Sorry," mumbles Mary Anne, folding her arms and pointedly staring out the window.

"And you're the one who brought up Dawn. You're always the one who brings up Dawn," I point out. "And I wasn't going to say anything about her, really, but since you broached the subject, I'm going to say that I don't understand what your problem is. I know Dawn seems pretty heinous initially, but she's not so bad. She hardly seems to be the second coming of Satan and I go to church, so I should know."

"Oh, yeah, Dawn's perfect and everything's my fault," says Mary Anne.

"I didn't say she's perfect. She has a number of flaws. But she doesn't breathe fire either, or kick puppies, or spit on old ladies. She would make up with you if you let her."

"I tried to make up," huffs Mary Anne. "I tried to be nice – and what did she do? She sabotaged my steady baby-sitting job! The Marshalls still haven't asked me back!"

"Yes, that is a pity, that you're no longer in danger of being molested by a dirty old man," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Dawn's a liar," says Mary Anne. "That's what she does. She lies."

"No, she doesn't," I argue. If anything, she's far too brutally honest.

"Frankly, you don't know what you're talking about," snaps Mary Anne. "She isn't all sunshine and granola. I know Dawn. I know her better than anyone. I know how she operates. She'll turn on you, too, and it won't be pretty." Mary Anne leans her cheek against the glass and stares out.

"You're talking nonsense."

Mary Anne jerks upward. "Am I?" she demands. Then she snorts. "You'll see for yourself eventually." And then Mary Anne's eyes begin to well with tears and I resist the urge to roll mine again. "It isn't fair," she cries. "It isn't fair. It isn't fair. It isn't fair."

At a stop sign, I reach into my purse and pull out a tissue. Mary Anne sobs the rest of the way to her house.

I pull alongside the curb outside her house on Burnt Hill Road. The garage door is up. Sharon's station wagon and Mr. Spier's new Mazda sit inside. Mary Anne stares at both, forlornly. I think maybe she'll refuse to leave the car.

"Mary Anne…" I say, lowering my voice to a gentle purr. I reach out my hand and touch her knee. She is my friend after all. Even if I am not hers.

Mary Anne jerks away at my touch, broken from her trance. She throws open the car door. "She'll only leave, you know," she tells me, angrily. "That's what she does best." Mary Anne leaps from the car, hauling her bag out behind her. But she lingers, leaning inside the car. "When she's done, she's gone. And we'll still be here, stuck with what she's left behind. She always leaves!" Mary Anne breaks into fresh tears and dashes away, leaving the car door gaping open, and races across the grass, tripping in her shoes and dropping her bag. The contents spill all over the grass, but Mary Anne doesn't stop for them. She leaves them there and runs up the front steps and through the front door, slamming it behind her.

I wait a moment, staring at her house. Then I shut the passenger side door and move on.

The Bernsteins disconnected their doorbell, so I bang on the front door with my fist. Mrs. Bernstein jerks the front door open, wearing her usual grouchy sneer.

"Why are you pounding on the door?" she demands.

"I wanted to make sure you heard me."

"Heard you? The whole neighborhood heard you! And I was right in the foyer!" Mrs. Bernstein gestures inside at a bucket full of sudsy water, a soaked sponge on the tile beside it.

"Isn't it the Sabbath? I don't think you're supposed to be doing that."

"Oh, so you're Jewish now?" snaps Mrs. Bernstein.

"Is Emily here?"

Mrs. Bernstein steps aside and holds the door open for me. "Emily is upstairs studying," she replies and shuts the door behind me. "You know the way, Miss Blume."

I sigh, heavily. "Why do you insist on calling me that?" I ask.

Mrs. Bernstein stares at me with her mosquito face, her eyes small and dark behind the large gold frames of her glasses. "Several years ago, you came into the pharmacy with your father and informed me that I am to address you as Miss Blume. I have complied." Mrs. Bernstein turns her back to me and drops to the floor. She picks up her sponge and resumes scrubbing the baseboards.

I stare at her back. The sleeves of her long-sleeved shirt are pushed up to her elbows and the hem of her calf-length skirt is drenched through.

"I don't recall that," I inform her.

Mrs. Bernstein looks over her shoulder. "I recall it quite vividly," she replies and returns to her work.

I leave her in the foyer. What a nut.

I climb the stairs, past the Walk of Emily, and then knock on Emily's closed bedroom door.

"Come in!"

I open the door and find Emily seated at her desk, books and lined paper and newly sharpened pencils spread before her. Emily is painting her nails.

"You're mother is in a mood," I inform her.

Emily makes a face. "I know. Why do you think I'm hiding in my room?"

"Shouldn't you be at synagogue or something?"

"That was over hours ago." Emily blows on her wet nails.

"Your mother jumped down my throat because I pointed out that she's not supposed to be cleaning on the Sabbath."

Emily waves her wet hand. "Don't be so sensitive," she says. "It's not you. She's mad at my father, that's all. Cleaning helps."

"What did your father do this time?" I ask, but doubting that I truly want to know. I take a seat on the bed. "Did he buy dark brown sugar instead of light again? Did he forget to put the cap back on the toothpaste?"

"No!" exclaims Emily. "Those things are all stupid!" She pauses and then relents. "All right, it's actually pretty dumb. But you know how moody she gets! Well, anyway, Mr. and Mrs. Stern were over last night playing cards. Mr. and Mrs. Stern started talking about when the other one dies because they're always talking about the other one being dead." Emily shakes her head. "And last night they were talking about their next spouses. Mr. Stern said he would marry Mrs. McGill and Mrs. Stern said she would marry Mr. Pike." Emily holds up her hand before I can speak. "_I know._ And then…well, apparently, my father already has his next wife picked out too. And my mother got really mad about that and said she would marry Uncle Malcolm then. And that upset my father. So, now they're not speaking. My dad's in Stamford at Uncle Lee's."

"Emily…that is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard."

"_I know_. They can be so petty sometimes."

_Sometimes_?

"I just had the weirdest encounter with Mary Anne," I tell Emily.

"Yeah? Probably because I had a thing or thirty to say to her yesterday. I called her up and read her the riot act."

"Sensational job. She appears to be having a nervous breakdown."

"Well, she's a lousy friend and I'm not afraid to say it to her face."

"Except you said it over the phone."

"You know what I mean!"

"I'm sitting right here, you don't have to shout."

"Did she give you some hogwash about the games Dawn plays?" asks Emily, ignoring my comment. "She really hurt Julie's feelings."

"We didn't get to any games. She blathered on about Dawn's lies and then started crying. Then she ran away. What do you think they're fighting about? Dawn won't tell me."

"They're fighting about _nothing_," says Emily. "They're both crazy."

"Dawn isn't crazy," I protest. A little weird, maybe, but that's probably because she's from California.

"Siblings make you crazy. I'm ecstatic to be an only child," replies Emily. "Did you notice my shirt?" she asks and pulls down on her white tank top. It reads: _I Survived Julie Stern's Sweet Seventeen_ in hot pink print. Emily's wearing it over a white t-shirt. "My parents say tank tops are indecent," she explains.

I roll my eyes. The Bernsteins think everything is indecent. "It makes your bust look gigantic, you should know," I inform her. I tossed my tank top in my closet. I intend to never wear it. "I'm shocked Julie didn't invite her boyfriend to her party."

"She did invite Uncle Malcolm, but he thought she was joking."

"I actually meant your cousin, but that's much funnier," I reply. Julie Stern is loco.

"I'd rather Uncle Malcolm be interested in Julie than that shrew he's dating now," says Emily, again choosing to ignore my comment.

"You'd rather he be a pedophile – nice," I say with a nod.

Emily narrows her eyes, then moves on. "I need to find a way to break them up. I don't know _what_ he's thinking. She is _awful_. You won't believe what she said to me the other night! She told me that I am too loud and then made me wash the dishes!"

"The nerve."

"_I know_!" Emily shrieks. "She said, 'you are _too_ _loud_, please lower your voice' and then she practically threw a plate at me! Tracey is a thorn in my side. She's got to go." Emily purses her lips. "And I overheard her say something really terrible about my mother!"

"What did she say?" I ask, interest piqued.

"I'm not even going to repeat it!"

It must be true then.

"And she once yelled at me because I don't know how to use the washing machine! That's why I have a mother! She called me _lazy_."

I think I like this girlfriend.

"That's horrid, Emily."

"I knew you'd understand," says Emily. I don't know why. _I_ know how to use the washing machine. "My mother thinks she's fabulous, but that's only because Grandma and Grandpa Bernstein can't stand the girlfriend either and so finally, my mother's not the least popular person in the family."

I chuckle.

Emily frowns. "Why is that funny?" she asks.

"Oh…I thought that was a joke."

Emily continues to frown. "Why would I joke about that? It's _funny_ that my grandparents don't like my mother?"

"Of course not."

"Then why did you laugh?"

I study Emily's frowning face, trying to figure out how to turn this around.

"You're too sensitive," I inform Emily. After all, I make fun of her mother all the time. "I thought you were joking because…gosh, Emily, it's your mother." I pause and when Emily's expression doesn't change, I continue. "She's not exactly…friendly."

"You don't like my mother?" asks Emily.

"I never said that."

Emily's frown deepens. "You don't like my mother?" she repeats. "Why not? She's so nice to you!"

I gape at her. When has Mrs. Bernstein _ever_ been nice to me?

"Why don't you like her? What's wrong with her?" demands Emily.

There's no way around it.

"She's…kind of a grouch," I say. "She screeched at me for knocking on the front door!"

"You were shaking the whole house!" yells Emily. "And she can't help the way she is! She's just…she's just…her parents are really mean! It's a miracle she turned out so pleasant!"

"You think she's pleasant?" I can't help but laugh. "Jeez, Emily, she's kind of a raging bitch."

Emily's mouth falls open.

"She is not!" Emily protests, jumping out of her chair. "You know who _I _think is a raging bitch? Your mother! And you're just like her!"

"Oh, please," I dismiss her. "You're just trying to rile me up."

"Am I? Am I?" Emily yells at me. "Well, then, how about this? Your mother is a lush!"

I stare at her, stunned.

"Your mom's a drunk! My mother told me! She went over to your house once looking for me and your mother was home alone. And she was so drunk she couldn't even walk. She _crawled_ to the front door. Then she threw up on my mother's shoes!"

"That is such a lie, Emily! You're making that up!"

"Am I? Should I call my mother up here? I'd tell you to ask your own mother, but she probably blacked out and doesn't remember!" Emily cries. "Your mom's a lush. Everyone knows it. We talk about it all the time."

I continue to stare at Emily, fighting the urges that crash inside me. I press them down. I hold back my tears.

"At least my parents aren't freaks!" I leap to my feet. "Your mother is a tyrant and your father is a walking sideshow!"

"And your mother is an uptight snob and so are you, Grace Blume! And I bet your dad's a drunk, too!" Emily bursts into tears and holds her hands over her face, her shoulders shaking in time with her sobs. "My parents know people don't like them and they can't figure out why. It's so unfair."

They can't figure out why? I didn't realize the Bernsteins were _stupid._

Emily continues to cry, face hidden in her hands. She trembles.

And on the inside I rage and on the outside my entire body flushes crimson red. I want to cry, too. And I want to be reassured that Emily tells me lies.

"Emily…" I say and my voice trembles like her body.

Emily lowers her hands. Her face may be soaked with tears, but it also twists with fury. "Get out of my house!" she barks at me. "I never want to see you again!" Emily charges at me and shoves me, taking me by surprise and knocking me off balance. For such a tiny girl, she's unexpectedly strong. "You're just the same as you've always been! You're a vindictive bitch even without Cokie!"

I push Emily back and she falls into her desk chair. I push her because I can. And then I run downstairs, through the living room, and slide across the wet tile, and then am out the door. I slam the door behind me and shake the entire house.

I drive straight home and swerve into the driveway so fast I miss the driveway completely and drive over the curb and the grass before screeching to a halt in the garage. My parents aren't home. They went to the city.

I run into the house and into my parents' office. I gather all the liquor bottles from the bar. I load my arms full of gin and rum and vodka. I take the bottles outside and line them on the cement. Then I rush back inside and empty the wine rack. I line those bottles alongside the others. Then I grab the first bottle by the neck and hurl it at the side of the house. It shatters and flies. I go down the line, winding my arm back and throwing with all my might. The bottles smash against the stucco. There are giant red splotches left behind by the merlot and cabernet.

When I am done, I stand back and admire my work. The broken glass glitters in the sun.

I leave the mess in the backyard and retreat upstairs. A feeling of calm and release washes over me. I lie down on my bed and pick up the phone. I punch in Dawn's number. No one answers, so I leave a message for Dawn to call me back. But she doesn't.

And she doesn't call the next day.

Or the day after that.


	61. Chapter 61

My mother accepts "I hate Emily Bernstein" as an acceptable excuse for the broken liquor bottles in the backyard. My father does not. He still suspects I'm crazy. Maybe I am.

Either way, he just goes to the A&P to buy more booze.

And that's just the way it is.

By Tuesday, I have invented a new game that involves dribbling a tennis ball on the diving board with my racket. It's a solitary game for a solitary person.

I am willing to forgive Emily when she is willing to apologize. Her mother _is_ a grouchy old hag. My mother is _not_ a drunk.

I'm mad at Stacey for calling me Saturday night to demand to know why I yelled at Mary Anne. I did nothing of the sort. Mary Anne and Stacey can take a flying leap. I'm bored with their theatrics. I'm also mad at Gran for her answering machine message, but that didn't stop me from having brunch at the Strathmoore with her on Sunday after church. She is the only person interested in seeing me or speaking to me without berating me. I didn't actually go to church. I'm bored with Mari's theatrics, too. I didn't _do_ anything to her either. And Julie keeps calling me, but I don't answer. I'm not interested in going to the movies or to Uncle Ed's or to Fun City or to anywhere else she plans to trick me into seeing Emily.

And Dawn won't return my calls.

I swim all morning until my fingers prune and my eyes sting from the chlorine. Inside the house, I put drops in my eyes and jump on my mother's stationary bike. I ride in my wet swimsuit. I put on my headphones and listen to a mix tape Stacey made me last Christmas. I close my eyes and pedal and pedal and pedal, going nowhere.

I shower and dress for no one. I braid my hair.

At two o' clock the doorbell rings. I can't see the front porch from my bedroom window, so I have to go downstairs. I press my eye to the peephole. Dawn stands on the porch, hands in the back pockets of her faded jeans, blonde hair wild around her. She's looking behind her, but turns her head and stares straight at me. She presses a blue eye to the peephole.

Sighing, I open the door. "Hello," I say, frostily.

"Hi," says Dawn. She doesn't smile or offer an apology. "Can I come in?" she asks and waits for me.

"I suppose so," I relent and open the door wide enough for her to slip through. "Although, you could have called first. I have a busy day planned."

"Oh. Sorry," Dawn replies. She stops in the foyer to regard me, shifting her weight from foot to foot. "I would have called, but I didn't know if I was actually coming over." She crosses her arms.

I stare back at her. What did I do wrong?

"Did Mary Anne erase my messages or something?" I ask.

"No, but she accused me of brainwashing you," answers Dawn. There isn't the usual hint of amusement in her voice or that familiar cock of her eyebrow. "I told her that you're too stubborn to be brainwashed."

"Oh."

"Can we go upstairs?" Dawn asks and then waits for my consent.

"Certainly."

She's acting weird.

Dawn follows me upstairs and then shuts the door behind her. "Is your housekeeper here?" she asks.

"No, she came early today."

I sit down on the bed, but Dawn doesn't go to the window seat. Instead she stands at the trophy case, fidgeting nervously with the medals and ribbons. She glances at me and then away again. "Mom noticed the ring Saturday night," she tells me. "She wasn't happy."

"What happened?"

"She completely flipped out," says Dawn, still staring at my tennis trophies. "She really lost it. I thought she was having a breakdown. She started crying hysterically." Dawn returns her gaze to me. "I know how she got the ring."

"How?"

"Margolo gave it to her."

I sigh, disappointed. "That's all?" I ask. What a lot of fuss about nothing.

"Actually, she traded for the ring."

"Well, what did she trade for?"

"For Pop-Pop's gun."

"She gave Margolo a gun to kill herself?"

"She wasn't supposed to shoot herself. She was supposed to shoot your grandfather. He's the one who got her pregnant."

The entire room freezes into stillness. There is no sound. There is no movement. There is no air.

"Is that meant to be a joke?" I demand. "It isn't funny at all."

"No, it's not a joke!" cries Dawn.

"Why are you lying then?"

"I'm not lying!" Dawn protests. She lowers her voice. "I'm not lying," she says again. "My mom told me everything. I guess I wore her down. She couldn't keep it in any longer." Dawn looks at me apologetically, then says, "Margolo went to my mom when she found out she was pregnant. She said your grandfather had been raping her for years. She wanted to kill him. So, Mom stole Pop-Pop's gun and gave it to her. But Margolo didn't go through with it. And your grandmother found someone to perform the abortion and Margolo stayed out of school for a long time. When she came back, Mom said she had gotten really strange and they weren't friends anymore. Mom feels really, really bad about it now, but she said she just…she just….she just couldn't be Margolo's friend knowing what she knew. She was only sixteen. And she forgot all about the gun until a few years later when Margolo killed herself. And she thought it was too late to say anything."

I can only stare at Dawn.

"Mom feels so guilty about what happened," Dawn continues, voice climbing. "She made me promise to not tell you, to not tell anyone. She's never told. Not even Richard knows. And I wasn't going to tell you. That's why I didn't return your phone calls. But I made a promise to you, too. We're partners and I promised to tell you everything." Dawn stops and watches me. "Are you going to say anything?" she finally asks.

"I can't believe it took you three days to concoct such a ridiculous story."

Dawn's eyes widen.

"It's disgusting!" I shout, rising to my feet. "How can you make up such a revolting story about my family? I know you wanted a mystery, but you can't just make up lies!"

"I am not lying!" Dawn exclaims. "That's sick!"

"You're sick!"

"You're just upset because you know it's true!" Dawn informs me. "Think about it! It explains everything – why your grandmother was sniffing around for an abortion, why Margolo disappeared, why Corinne was sent away. Corinne was sent away so he wouldn't rape her, too. Your grandmother knew all about it, Grace, and she covered it up."

"Gran would never do that."

"You don't think? She's a wicked person, Grace. She threw you down a flight of stairs, for Christ's sake! My God, Grace, open your eyes!" Dawn takes a deep breath and blows it out. "And your grandfather was a monster. We know he burned your grandmother with cigarettes and belted her to the bedpost – you think _this_ is out of the realm of possibility?"

"You know what I think? I think you're a raving lunatic!"

Dawn's mouth hangs open. "I can't believe how stubborn you are!" she shrieks. "I found out all the answers, everything we've searched for all summer, and you refuse to believe me. Why would I lie, Grace? Why? And why would my mom lie? We aren't getting any enjoyment out of this." Dawn studies me, leaning back against my desk, knuckles white and tight along the edge. "You want to know it all?" she asks.

"More fabrications?"

Dawn continues to stare at me. "If you're going to hate me," she says. "I might as well give you everything." She waits for me to stop her. I don't. "Margolo told Mom everything - every awful thing that went on in that house. Your grandfather was raping Margolo, but it wasn't just her. He raped your mother, too."

"You liar!" I scream, taking a step toward her. She presses farther back into the desk. "How dare you say such a thing about my mother! That's sick! It's sick! My mother would never do that with her own father!"

"I hardly think she was a willing participant, Grace," Dawn replies. She manages to sound so calm. It's easy when it doesn't touch her.

"It's not true!"

"Yes, it is. And I guess…I guess….I guess I shouldn't have told you. I'm sorry. I thought you would want to know. I'm sorry about it all, Grace. I'm sorry for everyone. I really am." And Dawn begins to cry. She rubs at her eyes and the tears come, trickling down her tanned cheeks. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she repeats. "It's so terrible."

I stare at her, stone-faced, standing ramrod straight, arms hanging at my sides, I face her as she collapses.

"I don't want to play your game," I tell her.

Dawn drops her hands. Her face is wet and surprised. "This isn't a game, Grace," she says.

"You've been playing some kind of game with me all summer. You had this all planned out. That first day, you asked about Aunt Margolo and why she committed suicide. You set this all in motion. You tricked me!"

"That isn't true! I asked because I was curious! And I told you, Grace, I wanted to know why someone would kill herself. I wasn't expecting this. This isn't something anyone wants to find."

"Aunt Margolo killed herself because she was weak," I tell Dawn. "And maybe she did tell your mom some fantasy about Grandfather and your mom was foolish enough to believe it."

Dawn's face doesn't turn angry. It fills up with something else. She steps forward and holds out her arms, coming at me. And in her face, I see it. She looks at me with pity, in the same way I imagine her grandmother looks at my grandmother. I want none of it.

I move backward.

"I want you to leave," I tell her.

Dawn halts with her arms stretched outward.

"Leave my house!"

"Grace…"

"Leave! Go!"

"Grace, it isn't anyone's fault. What your grandfather did was pure evil, but your mom and Margolo were just – "

"Are you deaf? Leave my house!" I scream and fly at her.

Dawn is quick. She reels backward, out of reach.

"Go! Go!" I screech and chase after her. I chase her down the stairs. I chase her out of my house.

Dawn barely touches the ground as she zooms off the porch and across the grass. She picks up her bike and pedals off, disappearing down Locust.

"Never come back!" I yell after her.

I go back inside and bolt the front door. I run up the stairs, stumbling twice in my hurry. I grab the phone, accidentally knocking the base off the night table. I dial my mother's office number.

"Fay Blume's office. This is Sandy. How may I help you?" chirps Mom's assistant.

"I need to speak to my mother!" I shout into the phone.

I wait on the line for less than five seconds.

"Why are you hysterical?" Mom demands when she comes on the line.

"You need to come home!"

"Why? What's wrong? Did something happen? Were you in another car accident?"

I can't speak. I breathe into the receiver, quick and heavy.

"Grace? Are you all right? Grace, answer me!"

"I know everything!" I shout. "I know what your father did to you! I know it all!"

There's silence on the other end. My mother's breath sounds in my ear.

"I'm coming home," she says and clicks off the line.


	62. Chapter 62

My mother's feet thunder on the stairs. I leap up from the window seat, where I've been sitting and staring and waiting for the last two hours. Mom charges through the open bedroom door, empty-handed – no briefcase, no laptop. Her usually perfectly styled hair is disheveled, her face ghost-white within a frame of red.

"Is it true?" I demand.

Mom pauses just inside the doorway. She approaches slowly, her face impassive.

"What do you know?" she replies.

"It's true then?" There's something roaring in my chest, a fiery panic rising up. "You had sex with your own father?"

"I told you that I will never lie to you," Mom says. Her face hasn't changed. It has that slackened look to it, like Gran's. "It's true."

"That's sick, Mom!"

"It wasn't consensual!" Mom replies and her expression finally alters. "I didn't have a choice! I was a little girl!"

"Oh, my Gosh!"

"I never wanted you to know."

"It's all true then? Everything about you and Grandfather and Aunt Margolo and the baby?"

"What baby?" asks Mom.

"Aunt Margolo's baby! The one she aborted after your father knocked her up!"

Mom looks horror-stricken. "What?" she gasps. Her hand flies to her throat. "_What?_" she says again. "Margolo was pregnant?"

She really didn't know.

"Who told you that?" Mom demands.

"Dawn and I found a letter in Gran's attic. Gran was soliciting an illegal abortion for her daughter. We figured it was Aunt Margolo and…" my voice drifts off. "You didn't know?"

"No, I didn't know!" exclaims Mom. Then her expression shifts. "Did this happen her junior year?" she asks.

"Yes…why?"

"I…I always suspected that something happened. When I came home for Easter that year, Corinne had been sent to boarding school and my mother was driving around town in Elsa's car. I just…I just assumed my mother caught my father with another baby-sitter and finally snapped."

"Did Gran know? Did Gran know what he was doing?"

"Of course she knew. She isn't stupid."

"Gran wouldn't have allowed it. She couldn't have known."

"Your grandmother isn't nearly as dense as she pretends to be. She knew precisely what was going on and she did nothing about it," replies Mom, her voice flat and even. "Except locate an abortion doctor and send Corinne away, apparently."

"I don't believe that," I say. There are many terrible things I am willing to believe about my grandmother – that she watched my grandfather die, that she had an affair, that she has hurt me purposely – but I cannot believe that she would be so unloving or so callous to turn a blind eye to her own children being raped.

"You can ask her, if you want, but she'll probably only lie to you, as she has lied to Corinne all these years. I told Corinne after my father died and she was grieving like a fool, what he had done. She called me a liar and your grandmother said I was mistaken, that I always liked attention. As if that's the kind of attention anyone wants. But in private, my mother said to me, 'Fay, why must you bring up such unpleasantness?' and 'Fay, Ian's dead, he's not bothering you anymore'. Like all he was doing was pulling my ears or poking my side! She doesn't care now and she didn't care then! She was only happy that he wasn't bothering her!" my mother roars, her face flushing, all the calm and flatness leaving her voice. "It figures she would send Corinne away. She always protected Corinne. She never protected me."

I stare at her, aghast. "You're mad that he didn't do that to Aunt Corinne?" I demand. That's an evil, evil thing.

"Of course not! I didn't want him to do that to Corinne! I didn't want him to do that to any of us!"

"Then why did you let him do it? You never stopped him either!" My mother is strong, I cannot accept that she would accept such a thing.

"Because I was a little girl! I was eleven years old and he was my father. I'd spent my whole life watching him beat my mother into submission until the only words she ever spoke were 'I'm sorry, Ian' and 'You're right, Ian'. That wasn't happening to me. I endured and then I moved on with my life. What else was I supposed to do?"

"You could have told someone!"

"Who wants people to know something like that about them?" demands my mother. "I was young and I wanted to be normal. I didn't want people to know that my father came into my room at night, or that he beat my mother, or that he practically lived inside a bottle of scotch. And no one would have believed me. Everyone loved my father. He was very charismatic. He was everyone's best friend." Mom pauses and her face tightens and she looks pained. "Who was I supposed to tell? Taffy never would have spoken to me again and Sue would have gone straight to her parents. I didn't want people to know."

"And so, what, you just left? You took off for college and left your sisters with a pervert? How could you do that, Mom?"

"I was a teenager! I was selfish and self-centered and all I wanted was to escape. And I knew…I knew about him and Margolo. It was going on long before I left for college. He…he…" Mom laughs a strange laugh, "much preferred her to me after I perfected faking seizures. Epilepsy has been my blessing and my curse." Mom stops talking and moves toward me. Slowly, slowly, creeping nearer. I still stand with the bed between us, an obstacle and a barrier. But she begins closing the distance, coming at me. I step backward, but there's nowhere to go, except through the wall. "I never wanted you to know," she tells me. "You cannot judge me too harshly, Grace."

I can't look at her. I can't look at my mother who had sex with her father and then ran away so that he could have sex with her sister solely.

"Grace…" she says. "How did you find out? I know your grandmother didn't tell you, and certainly Corinne did not. There's no one else."

I consider lying, of covering up. But there has been enough lying. There has been enough covering up.

"Sharon told Dawn."

Instantly, my mother alters.

"I knew it!" she shouts, eyes blazing, face reddening deeper and deeper. "I knew Margolo told that Porter girl! I always, always knew! How _dare_ she repeat it! Who tells something like that about another person?"

"She didn't want to. We wore her down."

Realization dawns on Mom's face, sneaks into the crevices on her reddened skin, and illuminates it, eyes lifting upward, widening. "So, that's what you've been doing this summer?" she demands. "That's what's behind all the questions about Margolo and pregnancies and the past? Are you happy with what you've found? You couldn't have just left well enough alone?"

"Dawn and I wanted to know why Aunt Margolo killed herself, that's all. And…and…I wanted to understand you and Gran. I don't want…I don't want…"

"You don't want what?"

I don't want us to be like her and Gran.

"I don't want you to hate me like Gran hates you!"

My mother looks stricken.

"I could never hate you, Grace. You're my daughter."

"You're Gran's daughter. That obviously doesn't count for much."

"I am not my mother," says Mom. The redness and the anger no longer cloud her face. All the color has drained away. "And I do not hate you."

"You say that now!" I protest and all the calmness in her face and voice, none of it radiates to me. I feel panicked. I feel it swelling from deep within. "But you and Gran didn't always hate each other. You told me yourself, she used to not yell at you or argue with you. And Dad told me, Gran used to be more tolerant of you. You used to take me to visit her, I remember, when I was little. And all that changed. Gran is a bad mother! And you learned how to be a mother from her!"

Mom looks as if I just slapped her. "You think I'm a bad mother?" she asks, quietly. "You think I'm a bad mother?"

I don't answer.

"I am_ not_ a bad mother," Mom informs me. "All I've ever done is try to protect you! I would never let anyone hurt you! I would die before I allowed some man to touch you or abuse you or make you feel worthless! I stood up for you and defended you when your teachers and the other parents called you a bully and a follower. And when you stole a car and hit that boy, I protected you. Everything I've ever done has been to protect you!"

I still don't speak.

"You only remember the bad things, Grace," my mother continues. "You only remember the mistakes I've made and the things I've missed or forgotten. You don't remember all the things I showed up for or the things I did. When you were a little girl, I sat up with you when you were sick. And I bought you your first tennis racket and taught you how to play. I planned your birthday parties and helped with your math homework. And I may not make it to every tennis match or swim meet, but I try. And I've taken you shopping for prom dresses and formal dresses and Homecoming dresses. When I was in high school and I asked my mother to go shopping with me for my prom dress, she told me that I was old enough to go by myself! I may not be perfect, but I've done the best I could."

And then my mother does something I've never witnessed her do. My mother bursts into tears.

"I didn't say you were a bad mother," I tell her. "I said you had a bad example."

My mother nods and wipes a finger underneath her right eye, smearing her mascara in a long, crooked line. She looks at the wetness on her finger like it's something she's never seen.

"I believe you," I say. "About Gran and Grandfather. I'm sorry that happened to you. None of it was your fault."

Mom wipes her eyes again and nods. Then she stretches out her arms and comes toward me. At first, I am perplexed, until she wraps her arms around me. She holds me stiffly and loosely, like she fears I might shatter within her embrace. She tilts her head so that her ear and hair brush over my shoulder without quite touching it. I smell her expensive French perfume mingling with the scent of her shampoo. I can almost feel the dampness of her cheeks. We stand like that for less than a full minute. Then she releases me and steps back again.

"This doesn't concern you, you know. It shouldn't matter," Mom says. "Do you know what I mean?"

I nod because it seems the kindest lie.

Nothing will ever be the same.

"Are you going to be all right?" Mom asks me.

I nod again. There are no words.

Mom stands still while several moments tick by. Her face begins without expression but gradually flickers and twists.

"I'd like to be alone for a while," she says and pivots in her stilettos and walks away from me.

I watch her retreat, my mother in her checkered stilettos and designer suit, her expensive perfume lingering in her wake, and following her, unseen, all the misery and anguish of a lifetime of secrets and lies.

My mother's bedroom door slams shut.

I crumble the moment the door clicks. I fling myself face first onto my pillow and let loose an ocean of tears. I cry and I cry and I cry. I am grateful that the pillow muffles my sobs, so my mother does not hear. I soak through the pillow with my tears. I release all I've held within, all I've buried and pressed down floods forth in a sea of salty tears.

My tears have run dry by the time I hear my father downstairs, his feet thudding heavy on the carpet as he calls out, "Fay! Grace! Fay!" and his feet pound up the stairs in time with the bellow of his voice.

I remain face down on the pillow, pressing it tightly into my skin.

"What has happened now?" asks my father's voice from the doorway.

I start to cry again.

My father's footsteps continue on, down the hallway, as he shouts for my mother. Their bedroom door opens and closes. There is nothing then. Not a single sound in my big house, except for my wracking sobs until eventually they too still.

A long time passes before my father returns.

"Grace…" he says from the doorway.

I raise my head and I'm sure I am a fright, a mess of mascara and purple eye shadow, lipstick and dried tears.

My father stands framed in the doorway, his bald head nearly grazing the top, and looking much like my mother - put together and held together - in his navy blue suit and his blue and red striped tie. And he stands in the doorway and stares at me because even after seventeen years, he doesn't know what to say to me.

"Fay is quite upset," he tells me. He comes into the room and over to the bed. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a white handkerchief. My father is the only man in the world who still carries real handkerchiefs. He holds it out to me and I take it. His initials are in one corner, embroidered in yellow thread by his Aunt Muriel. "And you aren't faring much better," he says as I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. "Fay never intended for you to find out."

"You knew?"

"Of course. Fay told me before we got married."

"And you didn't care?"

"I cared that it happened to her, but it didn't affect how I felt about her. Fay did nothing wrong. It's something that happened to her, not because of her. You need to remember that, Grace. Fay is the victim in all of this. You can't let it affect how you see her. You should be proud of Fay. She's overcome much to lead a successful life. Fay and I moved beyond this ugliness long ago. And you must too."

I sit up straighter and slide to the edge of the bed. "She doesn't seem to have moved beyond it to me," I say.

"She's upset because you found out. She never wanted that," Dad replies. "And she's upset about Margolo. She didn't know."

"Mom hated Aunt Margolo."

"Fay was not kind to her sister and I think she regrets that," says Dad. "I can't pretend to understand their relationship. I liked my brother. But I imagine that when she was young, Fay was much like she is now, strong-willed and determined, and Margolo was not, and I think Fay resented that. I don't know. I doubt Fay could explain it either."

"Did you know Aunt Margolo?"

"I met her once or twice."

"What was she like?"

My father slides his hands into his pockets and considers the question. "Blank," he finally answers.

Poor Aunt Margolo.

"Mom is still angry," I tell Dad. "She isn't over anything."

"Fay is angry with Allison, not with Ian," Dad replies. "She resolved her feelings toward Ian years ago when he was still alive. She realized that he couldn't control her life anymore and she cut him off. It was the best thing she could have done and most likely the only effective way she could have punished him."

I am glad Gran let him die on the library floor. A heart attack was too kind a way for him to die. She should have broken open his skull. She should have ripped out his heart.

"Why did you ever move here?" I ask Dad. There are plenty of safe small towns far from New York City. There are plenty of places to raise a family. "Why did Mom come back?"

Dad regards me, thinking.

"Because Allison is here," he finally says.

"So? Mom hates Gran."

"Fay loves Allison. She may not like her, but Allison will always be her mother," Dad tells me.

"Mom once threw a bouquet of roses at her."

"Nevertheless," says Dad with a shrug. And then he sits down next to me on the bed. "I've always thought that if Allison were willing to apologize, Fay would be willing to forgive."

"That's insane. Gran is a monster." I touch my wrist where Gran held me in her grip and bruised my skin. She is evil, too.

"That may be a bit harsh."

"Is it? Don't you hate her, too?"

"There is no place in life for hatred. It's a waste of time and energy. I feel sorry for Allison and I feel anger towards her when she is cruel to Fay. But she is your grandmother and Fay's mother, and you both love Allison."

"No, I don't. I hate her."

"You might hate her right now, but that will change. She's your grandmother and she loves you. She wouldn't allow you into her home if she didn't. If Allison didn't want you there she would make it very clear."

"She doesn't love me. She only loves herself."

"I doubt she loves herself very much, actually."

"You said she's deranged. I heard you."

Dad looks at me in surprise. "When did you hear me say that?"

"When I was listening at the kitchen door."

Dad regards me and understanding lights in his eyes. "Oh," he says. "I was annoyed that morning. I thought Allison was feeding you misinformation. Allison can be very manipulative."

"And I'm gullible."

"Sometimes you're naïve and that's not necessarily a bad thing. You won't stay that way forever," Dad tells me. "Sometimes Allison's behavior is questionable, but I hardly think she's deranged. She is the product of a difficult life and most people in her position would have lost their minds long ago. Allison possesses some of the qualities I like most about you and Fay, the same things that frustrate me – you are all stubborn and iron-willed. Allison learned how to cope and survive and if she were anyone else, I would almost admire her."

"I think she's rotten on the inside," I tell my father. "She's spoiled."

"Allison is not an exceptionally kind person," my father allows. He is too fair, too patient. "She can be mean-spirited. She can be vindictive."

"Why would you ever let her anywhere near me?"

"Fay and I have disagreed on that," answers Dad. "When you were little, we controlled when you saw her. Then when you started going to her house on your own, I wanted to put a stop to it. But we knew you were having a hard time. You missed Cokie and you were struggling and you seemed to enjoy spending time with Allison. And I think Fay was hopeful that you would change Allison's heart. But Allison appears to have a soft-spot solely for you."

"She likes you."

"I don't look at that as some kind of prize," says Dad. "Fay is envious of you, you know, of your relationship with Allison. The last few years have been difficult for her. Fay has spent the fifty-one years of her life wondering what's wrong with her. She has tried to win Allison's affection again and again and has always failed."

"Gran's all hers now. I don't want her. I'm never speaking to her again," I say to Dad. I brush my fingers over my wrist once more. If he knew, he wouldn't be so calm and collected. If he knew. "Mom was right. Gran only used me to spite her."

"I don't doubt that Allison would be capable of carrying on such a charade," Dad agrees. "But it's not true. I've heard how Allison talks about you."

"Gran's going to Hell."

"I don't think that's for us to decide."

"You're awfully concerned about how Gran feels."

"I'm concerned about how you feel and how Fay feels," says Dad. "I don't know if what Allison's done is unforgivable. But Fay is willing to forgive and so I am too. At least I am willing when Allison is regretful. If you're equally willing, that's up to you, Grace. I won't make excuses for Allison. Her behavior is often inexcusable. But I don't want you to worry that you've been used, that you're some kind of pawn in Allison's game against Fay. I don't want you to have that kind of self-doubt. You're a worrier, Grace."

I never think he's paying attention.

"It's terrible, isn't it?" I ask my father.

"It is," Dad agrees. He slips his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. I rest my head on his shoulder, safe in the crook of his arm. Then he does something he has not done since I was small. He bows his head and kisses my forehead.


	63. Chapter 63

When I wander into my parents' bedroom at ten o' clock on Wednesday morning, my mother is a flurry of activity. She stands inside the doorway to the walk-in closet, buttoning her blouse and shoving the shirttails into her black skirt. One side of her hair is sticking out and yesterday's lipstick is smeared in the corners of her mouth.

"I thought you called in sick," I say, coming into the bedroom. I'm still in my pajamas.

Mom glances up from tying a green scarf around her neck. "I did," she says. "But Fiona returned to the country unexpectedly and she wants to see me. I told her that you and Hal have the flu, but she doesn't care." Mom grabs her purse and rushes to the bathroom, tripping in her stilettos.

I follow her and she begins throwing her make up into her purse. She tosses in her hairbrush, too.

"Why do you have to go?" She promised she would stay here with me.

"Why? Why?" Mom repeats. "Because I like having a job! We all have to answer to someone. I can't do whatever I want on a whim!"

"Why are you yelling at me?"

"I'm not yelling!" Mom yells, then she pauses. She lowers her voice. "I'm not mad at you. I mad at this stupid…this stupid…" Mom doesn't finish. She charges past me, zipping her purse, and snatches her suit jacket from the bed and shoves her arms into it.

"You're wearing two different shoes," I point out.

Mom looks down and growls, kicking off one shoe and disappearing inside the closet in search of the other. When she comes out, she says, "Hal's driving me to the train station and then he'll be back. I'll come home as soon as I can." She flings her purse over her shoulder. "And now I have to go and act like an executive," she says and storms out of the room in a huff.

I trail after her, following her down the stairs. Dad waits in the living room, leaning against the couch, keys in hand. "Are you ready, my dear?" he asks Mom and she grunts something in reply. "I won't be long," Dad promises me. Then he disappears after Mom into the kitchen.

I return to my room and go to the window to watch the Lexus back out of the garage and drive down the street.

I am angry for my mother.

My father can be cavalier about it, but I cannot.

I seize my chance. I tear off my pajamas and dress quickly in shorts and a fitted t-shirt. I lace up my tennis shoes and pull my hair into a ponytail. Then I grab my purse and car keys and am out the door.

I drive straight to Gran's.

I fly up the front steps and barrel through the front door without knocking. I drop my purse in the foyer.

"Who is there?" calls Gran's voice and she appears from the back of the house, striding swiftly forward in her white slacks and her white and navy striped shirt. She smiles when she sees me. "Grace!" she exclaims with a chuckle. "You gave me a fright. I'm an old woman. You shouldn't startle me like that."

"There's lots of things you shouldn't do," I reply, "but you did them anyway."

Gran crosses her arms and laughs again. "What is that supposed to mean?" she asks, amused.

"I _know_."

Gran drops her arms. "You know what?" she inquires.

"I know what you let Grandfather do to my mother," I say. "And I know why Aunt Margolo shot herself."

The smile vanishes from Gran's face. She straightens and stiffens. "Oh?" she says, as stiff and straight as her spine. "Well, I don't think I care to discuss that with you," she says and turns her back on me.

"You don't care to discuss it with me!" I roar.

Gran turns back around. "Do not shout at me inside my own house," she says and then she spins on her heel and walks away.

"Don't turn your back on me!" I cry and chase after her.

Gran stops and turns to face me. "I am losing my patience," she informs me. "If you cannot behave yourself, you need to leave."

"Are you serious?" I demand. "Are you serious?"

"You need to go home," she informs me. "You may return when you are able to speak in an indoor voice."

_Is she serious?_

"I will not leave!" I exclaim. "I want to know why you let your husband rape your daughters. I deserve some answers!"

"I don't owe you anything," Gran says and she walks away again.

I stalk after her into the library.

"Gran!"

Gran spins around and her face has changed. It has twisted in fury. She looks like the wicked woman from the attic. The Dragon Lady.

"You are to leave this house immediately!" she shouts at me. She points toward the door. "Leave! I do not wish for you to come back!"

"I will not!" I reply and stand my ground. "I want to know how you could do such a thing to my mother!"

"I never did anything to Fay!"

"You let Grandfather rape her! You let him rape her and Aunt Margolo and he got Aunt Margolo pregnant!"

"It isn't as if he asked my permission! What do you suggest I should have done? You think you're so smart," says Gran. "When Margolo came to me and said she was pregnant, she thought it was Ian's, but she wasn't certain. Margolo slept with half the boys in town. I can't recall how many times I walked in on her having sex in the pool house. She had no self-control."

"She was just like you, then, with the man across the street!"

Gran's jaw drops, but she quickly recovers and her mouth turns into a twisted sneer. "Hasn't Fay been busy," she says.

"My mother tells me the truth," I reply.

"Fay's version of the truth."

"So, you're saying you didn't know what Grandfather was doing? So, you're saying you didn't screw the man across the street?"

"There is no need to be crass," snaps Gran. "Why shouldn't I have been happy for once in my life? Why shouldn't I have fallen in love? I was cheated out of everything else. And Fay always held it against me," Gran tells me. "And yes, I knew about Ian. That's what you want to hear, is it? I knew. And there wasn't a thing I could do to stop it. This was Ian's house and we lived by Ian's rules."

"You didn't have to put up with it! You could have left!"

Gran actually laughs. "And done what? Where would I have gone? What would I have done? I never finished college. I never held a job. I had no skills. I didn't even know how to type! There aren't many jobs in this world for a woman who can walk with a book balanced on her head!"

"And so instead you stayed and let him beat you and abuse your daughters?"

"I had no choice! I did what I had to do!" cries Gran. "I played the hand I was dealt. And when Margolo came to me, I took care of it. I found the doctor and I took her to New York. And I told Ian, no more. And he never laid a hand on anyone in this house ever again."

"But it was too late for my mother! It was too late for Aunt Margolo!" I protest. "Do you want some kind of award for doing what you should have done from the start? My mother never would have let that happen to me! She would have protected me!"

"I'm not Fay!" shrieks Gran. "Fay got to finish college. Fay got to marry exactly whom she wanted to marry. Fay got to have a big, successful career. Of course Fay would never allow anything bad to happen to you because she has the luxury of options. I had plans for my life, too, and they didn't involve marriage or children or moving to Connecticut!"

"Well, it's your own fault for getting knocked up!" I reply. She expects me to feel sorry for her? "You should have kept your knees together and your feet on the floor!"

"You think I had a choice?" Gran demands. "My parents sold me, you stupid girl! My father gambled away all our money. There was nothing left! And so they sold me to the highest bidder. They brought me to my engagement party and I didn't even know I was engaged! Then they got me drunk on champagne and sent me upstairs with Ian. And that's how I got saddled with Fay. My parents got half their money that night and the other half after the wedding."

I stare at her, aghast.

"Fay doesn't know everything," says Gran. "I didn't want to marry Ian. I tried to climb out the bathroom window before the ceremony, but my mother caught me and pulled me back inside. I had no choice. And Ian would beat and then he'd be nice to me and then he'd beat me some more. And after Fay was born he was never nice to me again. Then he brought me to this hick town and trapped me inside this house with a bunch of Portuguese maids. I don't speak Portuguese!"

I look at my grandmother, this twisted, wretched woman who looks nothing like my grandmother, and somewhere I feel sad and sorry for her, but that is eclipsed by the fire in my heart.

"And so you just laid down and took it?" I demand. "You didn't _do_ anything about it?"

"How dare you judge me, you spoiled brat! The worst thing that's ever happened to you was when you didn't get to be the Homecoming princess! You flit around town in your silly Corvette with your twittering nitwit friends and you think you know anything about real life? You are a stupid little girl!"

I stare at her, unable to speak.

"And I did leave once," Gran tells me. "I packed my bags and I took Fay to my parents' house in Rhode Island. And do you know what my parents did? They called Ian to come pick me up! And then they moved to Scotland and didn't come back for ten years!" shouts Gran. "Ian beat me so badly I couldn't get out of bed for a week! If I had left again, he would have killed me. He would have killed me and buried me in the woods. He already had the spot picked out. No one ever would have found me. So, I stayed."

"But you could have asked for help. You could have – "

"Who would I have asked? Not my parents! Not Ian's father and stepmother! Not Ian's sister!" exclaims Gran. "Should I have gone to the police? Should I have gone to the neighbors? No one would have believed me! Ian had everything and I was his crazy wife. People don't like me. They never have."

"That's your own fault."

Gran's eyes flash and her nostrils flare. "I'm bored of this conversation. I'm bored of you," she tells me and walks past me toward the door. "Please leave. Don't come back."

I go after her. "I'm not finished with you!" I yell and grab her by the arm.

Gran tries to shake me off. "Let me go, you crazy girl!" she cries.

I tug on her arm. I want her to be sorry for what she's done. I want her to feel horrible and rotten and awful. She's taken so much from my mother, allowed her to be robbed.

"You are an evil, wicked woman!" I scream at her.

Gran breaks free of my grip.

"What do you want from me?" she screeches back.

I want more than she can give.

"I want to know how you can live with yourself! How do you walk through this house and remember all the evil that went on and still read your books and plant your flowers and worry about soap operas!"

"Because it's over! You're exactly like Fay! Why must you dredge up the past? The past is done. It can't be changed. Why can't you and Fay leave me in peace? All I want is to be left alone! All I've ever wanted is to be left alone!"

The past is of no importance says the woman who keeps a treasure trove of bad memories in her attic. She is a liar and a fool.

"All my mother wants – "

"Oh, all Fay wants, all Fay wants," says Gran, mockingly. "I don't care what Fay wants! She wants my head on a silver platter, I suppose. She has always blamed me for everything. She blames me for Ian. She blames me for Corinne. She blames me for her brain damage. I never asked for her help. I never asked for her interference. I didn't tell her to get between Ian and me that night. And I certainly am not the one who threw her against the wall. It's not my fault she hit her head. It's not my fault she has epilepsy. She blames me for _everything._"

What?

"She's never said anything like that to me. All she wants is to have a relationship with you!"

"Well, I don't want to have a relationship with her!"

I sting like I've been slapped.

"But my mother…" I begin and falter. "But Aunt Margolo…"

"I'm tired of talking about Fay and I'm tired of talking about Margolo!" says Gran. "Margolo couldn't accept the harsh realities of life. Life is not fair. We all must play the hand we are dealt. I waited Ian out and he finally died and everything was mine. Everyone always acted like I wasn't capable of doing anything for myself. I showed them. I fired the cook. I fired the maids. I fired the gardeners. I fired the lawyer. I even fired the accountant. I took care of everything on my own. And now all I want is to be left alone!"

"You are alone!" I shout. "You are a bitter, hateful old woman! And you're going to die alone in your big house with all your money! Congratulations on getting your wish!"

Something flickers in Gran's face, but she turns quickly from me and strides away. "I won't be seeing you to the door," she says. "Goodbye." She starts up the stairs.

"You aren't walking away from me!" I scream and run after her. She has dismissed me enough. She has dismissed everyone enough. She will see me. She will hear me. She will answer to me. "Gran!"

Gran turns at the top of the landing. "Stop following me!" she barks. "You said what you came to say and I am through with you!"

"I'm not finished!" I tell her. I face my grandmother on the landing. I am taller than her by a couple inches. I have always felt small beside her because she is my grandmother. But now I feel like a giant, mighty and strong. "Life may not be fair, but that doesn't mean you should purposely make it unfair for other people. Life wasn't fair to you, but it wasn't fair to Aunt Margolo or my mother either. You let Grandfather destroy Aunt Margolo and he could have destroyed my mother, too. And you don't even care! You aren't sorry! What's wrong with you?"

Gran just stares at me with that blank, slack expression.

"And my mother still loves you and you don't deserve it."

"I never asked her to love me," replies Gran.

A new storm rages inside me, a fury that rises from somewhere deep, white hot and all-consuming. It boils my blood.

And I don't know if I mean to do it. I simply reach out and shove my grandmother down the stairs.


	64. Chapter 64

"I am Corinne Shaughnessy and I demand to speak to whomever is in charge!"

Aunt Corinne is not happy.

"Hello! Hello!" Aunt Corinne shouts, continuing to pound her open palms on the desk at the nurse's station. The nurses have turned their backs to her and have been fixedly ignoring her for the last five minutes.

Finally, one of the nurses swivels around in her chair and stands up. "Ma'am, I am not going to ask you again to lower your voice and stop beating on our desk."

"I will lower my voice when I speak to a doctor!" barks Aunt Corinne. "My mother is dying and no one cares!"

"Your mother is not dying. Now please have a seat." And the nurse turns away again.

Uncle Cullen hovers nearby, looking nervous and slightly embarrassed. I'm seated on the couch in the waiting room of Stoneybrook General and my father's standing beside me with his hands in his pockets, looking around and pretending to not know Aunt Corinne.

Aunt Corinne stomps away from the nurses' station and kicks the coffee table. Luckily, the nurses don't see.

"This hospital is full of incompetents!" she informs us. "I am writing to the administration!" She waits for my father to respond, but he's staring pointedly in the opposite direction. "Hal? _Hal_!"

Dad finally turns his head to look at her. "I think that's extreme," he says.

Aunt Corinne huffs and throws her purse onto an armchair.

Uncle Cullen comes up behind Aunt Corinne and rests his hands on her shoulders. "You need to calm down, Sugar Bear," he says.

I roll my eyes.

"How can I calm down?" demands Aunt Corinne. "We've been here for over an hour and the only person who has seen fit to speak to us is some stupid nurse!"

"You need to be patient," says my father.

"While my mother dies on an operating table? I think not!"

Dad takes off his glasses and rubs his forehead.

"I knew something like this was going to happen," continues Aunt Corinne. "I've been saying it for years. She shouldn't be living in that house alone. She should be some place with people her own age."

"Gran doesn't want to be with people her own age," I point out.

Aunt Corinne ignores me. "She should be somewhere with people to look after her. She is a frail old woman!"

"Allison hardly has one foot in the grave," says Dad. "She'll likely outlive us all."

"Is that a joke, Hal? Are you being funny? Are you funny in a hospital?" asks Aunt Corinne. "My mother could have broken her neck! I don't know what would have happened had Grace not been there."

I sink farther down into the couch, trying to disappear.

I did not tell them the truth.

"Anyone can trip and fall," says Dad.

Uncle Cullen massages Aunt Corinne's shoulders and makes soothing noises in her ear. It doesn't help.

"Get off me!" she orders and wriggles from his grip.

A set of doors swing open and a snowy-haired doctor in a white coat comes through. "The family of Allison McCracken?" he calls out.

Aunt Corinne is at his side in a flash. "I am Corinne Shaughnessy and Allison McCracken is my mother," she informs the doctor.

"I'm Dr. Clarke, your mother's orthopedic surgeon," says the doctor. He shakes Aunt Corinne's hand and when my father and Uncle Cullen join them, he shakes theirs, too. I remain on the couch. "Your mother has suffered what we call a grade two femoral neck fracture – "

"Speak English! I'm not a medical professional!" snaps Aunt Corinne.

The doctor's eyes widen slightly, but he recovers quickly. "Your mother fractured the neck of her femur. It's what you probably know as a hip fracture."

Aunt Corinne gasps and presses a hand to her chest. "Oh, my Lord in heaven," she says, dramatically.

Dr. Clarke eyes her and then continues. "But there is good news. Your mother was quite lucky. Fractures from falls are usually much more severe in elderly patients. However, your mother's is a low-grade fracture. I'll go in and put in a little screw and a plate and we'll have her up and walking by tomorrow." Dr. Clarke smiles. "I foresee no complications. Your mother appears to be in beautiful health for a woman her age. She's very fortunate. She'll need to go straight into physical therapy and her recovery time will be at least three or four months. I recommend a rehabilitation facility or in-home care. But we'll go into more detail after the surgery." Dr. Clarke smiles again. He's awfully cheerful for a surgeon. This is _good_ news?

"Will she be affected mentally?" asks Aunt Corinne.

Dr. Clarke furrows his brow and opens the chart in his hands. "Does your mother have a pre-existing mental condition?" he asks, flipping through the chart.

"She suffered a terrible fall," answers Aunt Corinne.

"She didn't land on her head," points out Dad.

Aunt Corinne shoots him a deadly look.

"Hal is a comedian," she informs the doctor. "Wait until you meet my sister."

Dr. Clarke smiles politely. "I do have one question," he says and looks in the chart again. "Your mother doesn't remember how she fell. Now she came in with her granddaughter..." Dr. Clarke looks over at me. "That's you? You told the admitting nurse that she tripped over her dog?"

"Penelope," I answer.

"Come again?"

"Penelope is the name of the dog," supplies Aunt Corinne. "She's a very small dog."

"Oh," says the doctor. I am glad he doesn't question me further. I am tired of telling the story. I've already told it to Mrs. Porter and Mr. O'Hare, to the paramedics, to the admitting nurse, to my father, and to Aunt Corinne. I am tired of taking my place as a liar.

"We're prepping her for surgery now," Dr. Clarke is saying. "I'll come out and speak to you afterward."

"Can I see her?" asks Aunt Corinne.

"Ah," says Dr. Clarke. "I would not advise it. Your mother isn't being too cooperative at the moment. She insists she's fine to go home, but that's not happening today. You can see her after the surgery." Then with a parting smile, he turns and goes back through the swinging doors.

"That's it," says Aunt Corinne, striding back to the sitting area and grabbing her purse off the armchair. She lowers onto the cushion and begins digging through her purse. "We're calling the lawyer tomorrow," she tells Uncle Cullen. She takes out a thick black leather-bound book and starts turning its pages. "We need to have papers drawn up to be my mother's power of attorney or executor of her estate or whatever it's called. And we need to find her a nursing facility. There's a place in Greenvale that's much nicer than Stoneybrook Manor."

"You can't send Gran to a home!" I protest.

Aunt Corinne gives me an exasperated look. "Were you not listening to the doctor?" she asks. "He said she needs to be in a facility."

"A rehabilitation facility! And that's only until she gets better! And he said she can have in-home care!"

"Will you stop shouting?" says Aunt Corinne. "It's unfortunate it had to come to this. I suppose we'll have to go to court. I'll have to become her conservator or something."

"There is nothing wrong with Allison's mental faculties," says Dad.

"Ladybug, I think – " starts Uncle Cullen, but Aunt Corinne silences him with a poisonous glare.

"I will call the lawyer tomorrow and with any luck this will all be sorted out by the time Mom's ready to leave the hospital," says Aunt Corinne.

"You cannot be Allison's power of attorney," my father tells her.

"And why is that?" asks Aunt Corinne, not glancing up from her day planner.

"Because I am already her attorney-in-fact."

"You're not an attorney any longer, Hal. You were disbarred," replies Aunt Corinne.

I look at my father sharply, but he pretends not to notice.

"That's not what an attorney-in-fact is, Honey Bee," says Uncle Cullen.

Aunt Corinne sighs and finally looks up. "Then what is it?" she asks.

"It means that I am in control of Allison's estate and her decision-making should she become incapacitated," replies Dad.

Aunt Corinne springs to her feet, dropping her day planner and spilling her purse all over the floor. "_What?_" she cries. "_You_?"

"Yes, me."

"I don't believe it!"

"Allison had the papers drawn up years ago. You can call Susannah Blumberg if you don't believe me."

The tips of Aunt Corinne's sticking out ears turn bright red and the color slowly spreads down her face, all the way to the white color of her blouse. She clenches her fists and her eyes begin to bulge. Then she releases a high-pitched scream right in the middle of the hospital waiting room.

One of the nurses calls security.

Aunt Corinne does not go quietly.

"My husband golfs with the chief of staff!" she shrieks at the security guard who arrives to collect her.

"Let's go outside and cool down," suggests the guard and he gently takes her arm.

Aunt Corinne yanks her arm away. "Don't touch me!" she barks. "Cullen! Do something!" and then she slugs Uncle Cullen in the arm.

"Some fresh air will do you good, Peppermint," insists Uncle Cullen, rubbing his shoulder.

Before she leaves, Aunt Corinne kicks over the magazine rack.

"Dear God," gasps one of the nurses.

Dad watches Aunt Corinne and Uncle Cullen vanish behind the elevator doors, then nonchalantly strolls over to the nurses' station and leans on the desk, speaking to the nurse who telephoned security. He talks to her for quite awhile, then returns to me and says he's going downstairs. He leaves me alone in the waiting room.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" asks a stout blonde nurse.

"I'm fine," I answer. I think a minute before adding, "That's not my mother."

The nurse nods and returns to her work.

I wish I could disappear.

Dad returns a few minutes later. He brings me an orange soda and a stack of magazines. "They didn't have pineapple," he tells me. He sinks down onto the couch beside me. He pops open his diet cola.

"Thanks," I say, accepting the soda. I open it, then set it aside. I leave the stack of magazines perched on my knees. "Where's Aunt Corinne?"

"In the main lobby throwing a temper tantrum," answers Dad. "We may not see her again."

Aunt Corinne will be back if she has to scale the side of the building.

"What happened to Allison?" Dad asks me.

"Penelope got in her way."

"I was wondering what happened to you," Dad tells me. "When I returned from the train station. I assumed you had gone to Allison's. I was preparing to come after you when Mrs. Porter called."

I was wondering who called him. I was still with the admitting nurse when he came charging through the ER doors. Mrs. Porter must have called Aunt Corinne, too.

"You confronted her," says Dad. It's a statement, not a question.

"We argued and she ran away from me," I say. "Then Penelope tripped her and she fell down the stairs."

"You did the right thing, Grace," says my father. "You kept a level-head. I'm proud of you."

My body grows fiercely hot. No one should be proud of me ever again. I am a bad, bad person.

I open one of the magazines. "I've never read French Vogue," I tell Dad and pretend I'm interested in the pages.

I didn't shove my grandmother hard enough for her to fall to the bottom of the staircase.

She fell to the first landing. She landed on her side and cried out. She screamed and screamed and tried to stand. I ran to her and she pushed me away. I called for the ambulance. And then I called Mrs. Porter and Mr. O'Hare from next door. We had to hold Gran down because she wouldn't stop struggling and trying to stand. The paramedics arrived and Gran fought them, too. She was still trying to get up when they rolled her outside on a stretcher. I climbed into the back of the ambulance and Mrs. Porter tried to follow me, but I blocked her way. My grandmother doesn't need a pity friend.

Security doesn't allow Aunt Corinne back inside the hospital for over an hour.

The nurses are not pleased to see her stride back in, shoulders squared and looking haughty.

"Where is Fay?" inquires Aunt Corinne, dropping her purse on the armchair.

"My mother's at work. She has a job."

"Her job is more important than this?" she asks. She gestures to Uncle Cullen. "Cullen has a job. Hal has a job. They're here."

"I left a message for Fay," says Dad. "Her assistant is having trouble locating her. Fay's at a business lunch."

"I hope she's enjoying herself," says Aunt Corinne, collapsing back into the armchair.

She doesn't stay seated for long. She gets up and walks over to the nurses' station. She manages to keep her voice down.

Uncle Cullen wanders over to the couch where Dad and I sit. He grins sheepishly at my father. "The McCracken women, eh?" he says. "And Allison is so sedate." He pushes the hair out of his eyes. It flops right back down. "They're a handful," he says.

"Except my mother's never been ejected from a hospital," I point out. Then I feel sort of sorry. Uncle Cullen is all right. Usually.

"What are you discussing?" demands Aunt Corinne, sidling up to Uncle Cullen. She points a finger at my father. "I want you to know that I telephoned Sue Blumberg and she refused to tell me anything. I told her to get her big butt down here and she said something very rude to me that I will not repeat in front of Grace."

"Perhaps you should have left her butt out of it," I suggest.

"Don't be a smart mouth," scolds Aunt Corinne.

"I'll call Susannah myself," promises Dad.

Aunt Corinne nods and straightens up, trying to stand tall. She barely reaches Uncle Cullen's shoulder. The fluorescent lighting overhead catches the red highlights in her brown hair. I don't know how I never saw that she does not belong.

"Mom is out of surgery," Aunt Corinne informs us. Dad and I already knew. A nurse came to tell us while Aunt Corinne was still in exile. "She's in recovery. I don't know why the doctor has not deemed it necessary to speak to us."

"He's busy," I tell her.

Aunt Corinne casts a withering glance my way, then turns to Uncle Cullen. "I don't know what we're going to do," she informs him, crossing her arms. "I'm calling the lawyer first thing in the morning and I want you to call that judge, the one with the boat. You know, from the marina."

"All right, bunny," agrees Uncle Cullen.

My father sighs.

Aunt Corinne turns her gaze on him. She squares her shoulders and looks down her nose at him. "You'll see it my way eventually, Hal," she promises. "You'll come around."

"Allison fractured her hip. She's not on her deathbed," says Dad. "I have no say in what happens to her."

"You aren't putting Gran away," I tell Aunt Corinne.

Aunt Corinne shifts her eyes to me. "You don't have a say in it," she informs me. Then she sighs, dramatically, and drops her arms to her sides. "Now, Grace," she begins in a condescending tone. "I appreciate that you were there with Mom, but this – " she twirls her finger around, "is an adult conversation." She turns to Uncle Cullen again. "That dog was supposed to be a companion, not a safety hazard."

I have had enough.

I leap to my feet and exclaim, "Who ever said she wanted a dog?"

Aunt Corinne shifts her body around, wide-eyed. "Excuse me?" she says in a measured tone.

"She didn't want a dog!" I shout. "She wanted you to visit her! I'm there all the time and where are you?"

Aunt Corinne places her hands on her hips. "I have three children!" Aunt Corinne replies. "And I don't have a nanny!"

"They go to school don't they?" I snap back. "You pretend to worry about her, but it's not like you ever check on her! And now you want to farm her out and make her someone else's problem!"

"How dare you speak to me like that!" cries Aunt Corinne. "If you were my daughter, I'd wash your mouth out with soap! Hal, is this how you've raised your daughter to behave? She has no respect for her elders!"

"Don't yell at your aunt," Dad tells me. "And mind your own business, Corinne."

"Ma'am," says the blonde nurse from earlier, coming to Aunt Corinne's side. "You are disturbing the patients and the other visitors. One more outburst and I will have you banned from this hospital."

Aunt Corinne's mouth gapes open.

Just then a different nurse comes through the swinging doors. "Allison McCracken's family?" she says to us. She glances at the blonde nurse, who makes a face. "Allison is awake now."

Aunt Corinne pushes past Uncle Cullen and me. "I want to see her. I'm her daughter."

"Oh…" replies the nurse, her face pinching strangely. "Your mother has requested that we not allow you back there."

"She means Fay," Aunt Corinne says, quickly. "I'm Corinne."

"She knows exactly who is out here. She can hear you all the way down the hall."

Aunt Corinne's face flushes bright red.

"May I see her?" Dad asks the nurse. "I'm her son-in-law."

"Of course," says the nurse, holding the door open for my father. "One at a time. The doctor is with her now. He'll wish to speak to you. Room two-twenty-two at the end of the corridor."

Dad disappears through the swinging doors.

The nurse remains behind and says, "Would you like to hear about the surgery?" to Aunt Corinne.

Aunt Corinne does not.

Instead, Aunt Corinne balls her hands into fists and begins jumping up and down. A near forty-year-old woman in a beige pantsuit and heels, string of pearls bouncing at her throat, as she throws a tantrum in a hospital waiting room. Uncle Cullen grabs her shoulders and pleads with her to stop. The new nurse and the blonde nurse attempt to step between them, the blonde nurse holding her arms out, shouting to be heard over Aunt Corinne. A nurse at the station pages security.

I stand at a distance, watching.

And on the opposite side of the waiting the elevator doors part and there stands my mother, purse over her shoulder, briefcase at her side. She stands very still and stares out at us. Behind me, Aunt Corinne rages on with Uncle Cullen pulling at her sleeve, the two nurses in their faces, the security guard shouting orders. Dr. Clarke and my father come through the swinging doors and join them.

The elevator doors close and my mother vanishes.


	65. Chapter 65

"Your grandmother wishes to see you," my father informs me after Aunt Corinne has been escorted out and ordered not to return.

I shake my head.

"She's asking for you."

"I don't want to see her."

My father places his hands on his hips and studies me. I know he knows.

"All right. Let me tell her." He turns and pushes through the swinging doors. I watch his retreat through the tiny window. He becomes very small and disappears inside a doorway. He doesn't return for several minutes.

We take the elevator to the lobby. I don't tell him about Mom.

Aunt Corinne waits for us in the parking lot, standing beside the Lexus, hands on her hips, gigantic black sunglasses perched on her scowling face. Dad and I climb into the Lexus and Aunt Corinne follows us out of the parking lot in her minivan. We head toward the Bainbridge Estates.

"What did Gran say to you?" I ask Dad.

"Not much. She was still pretty drugged up."

"Did she tell you what happened?"

"No, she just asked for you," Dad replies. "She cried."

"She's probably upset that she can't play tennis anymore."

"I doubt that," says Dad.

"Are you really her power of attorney?"

"Attorney-in-fact," corrects Dad. "And yes. She asked me years ago."

"Why did she ask you?"

"Because Allison knows I would never cheat her," answers Dad. "And I would never not act in her best interest."

"But Aunt Corinne is her favorite."

"Allison doesn't trust Corinne."

I glance at Dad. "Gran told you that?" I ask in surprise.

"She didn't have to tell me. Actions speak louder than words."

"Why are you so nice to her?" I ask him. "She's evil."

"You don't really believe that," Dad tells me. "And Allison has been shown nothing but indifference and contempt her entire life. It doesn't hurt me to treat her with a little kindness and consideration."

I am sorry for how I've treated my father. He is a kind man.

"I think Gran wishes she married someone like you. That's why she likes you."

"I would never be with someone like Allison," replies Dad. "But I suppose she was much different when she was young."

Probably. I wonder and it makes me sad.

"What will happen to Gran?"

"She'll start physical therapy and she'll return to her house. I'll hire someone to stay with her. And eventually, things will go back to the way they were."

The way they were. Everything will be the same. I changed nothing.

"Grace…" my father says and clears his throat. "This summer has been a difficult time for you. A lot has happened. You've had a hard time. You're dealing with a lot of ugly, very adult things. I have the name of a doctor in Stamford who I think you should see. I think he could help you sort through what's happened. If you agree, I'm sure Fay will agree, too."

"I'm not crazy."

"I know you aren't crazy. I think you are confused."

"Mom wouldn't like it."

"It's not about Fay. But she wants what's best for you, too."

"I'm not going."

"Grace…"

"I'm not going."

"Perhaps we'll discuss it another time," says Dad.

He turns the Lexus into Gran's driveway and parks beside my Corvette. Aunt Corinne parks her minivan behind us. We walk together to the front door and Dad reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keys. He sorts through them and then sticks a short gold one inside Gran's lock. Aunt Corinne stares at the key as it turns in the lock, but doesn't say anything.

All that effort Dawn and I put into getting inside Gran's house and the key was on my father's key ring the whole time.

Aunt Corinne pushes past my father so she's through the doorway first. She heads straight upstairs while my father goes into the library. I climb the stairs after Aunt Corinne. She already has Gran's suitcase open on the bed when I enter the room. The suitcase is burgundy and appears to be brand new. There are silver engraved tags hanging off the handle with Gran's name and address. Aunt Corinne starts opening drawers and tossing things inside the suitcase – nightgowns, socks and panties, Gran's blue silk robe. I go into Gran's bathroom and gather her toothbrush and hairbrush.

"What about this?" I ask Aunt Corinne, holding up Gran's curling iron.

Aunt Corinne glances up and sighs. "Don't you think that's a bit impractical?"

I disagree. I take the curling iron and grab a can of hairspray, too. I dump them inside the suitcase. Aunt Corinne sighs again, but makes no further comment. I open Gran's night stand and remove her reading glasses and her tube of violet lotion. There's a mystery novel in the drawer, too, with a receipt stuck between the pages. I toss that in the suitcase along with the glasses and lotion. Then I spot a prescription bottle, the bottle I saw the last time I was going through this drawer. I dismissed the bottle then. Now I reach for it and check the label. Sleeping pills. I drop the bottle back inside the drawer.

I start to close the drawer, but something catches my eye. The key on the mint green ribbon. The key to the attic. I slip it inside my back pocket. I'll keep it safe, so Aunt Corinne won't find it and go snooping for things she shouldn't know.

"Well, she has her curling iron and her hairspray and her book, I suppose Mom's all set for her holiday at Club Med," says Aunt Corinne, zipping the suitcase shut.

If that's an attempt at humor, it's not appreciated.

"Come along, Grace. Stop snooping through your grandmother's belongings."

We find my father in the library, shuffling a stack of papers. He smiles wanly at us and tucks the papers beneath his arm. Aunt Corinne eyes the papers suspiciously, but manages to hold her tongue. Dad locks the front door behind us and we walk toward the driveway, Aunt Corinne carrying Gran's suitcase and pulling Penelope on her leash. I watch Aunt Corinne back out of the driveway in her minivan, Penelope in the passenger seat, tiny paws on the windowsill, yipping excitedly. She'll probably be happier with Aunt Corinne.

I follow Dad home in my Corvette.

"I wonder whatever happened to Fay," Dad says when we walk into the kitchen. He checks his watch. Then he sees Mom's purse on the table. He picks up his pace and shoves through the door into the living room, calling Mom's name. I hurry after him. Dad takes the stairs two at a time, shouting for my mother.

We find her in the bedroom passed out on the bed. She's on her back, wearing only her bra and skirt. One of her shoes has fallen off. There's a wine bottle on the night stand and another overturned on the carpet.

"Oh, Fay," Dad sighs and goes to her.

"Is she okay?" I ask, voice rising. This is how my father's brother died. He drank too much and never woke up. He was dead for three days before his secretary went looking for him.

Dad touches Mom's bare shoulder. She murmurs and swats at him.

"She'll be fine," Dad assures me. He unzips Mom's skirt and tugs it off in one fluid motion and tosses it aside. Mom lays on the bed in only her bra and lace garter and black stockings. I turn the comforter down and Dad lifts Mom and deposits her gently back on the bed. I cover her. She remains asleep. She doesn't stir.

I sit on the bed and watch her while my father disposes of the bottles and cleans up what she spilled. And several hours later, when she awakens, I hold back her hair while she vomits into the toilet.

* * *

"What are you doing home again?"

Mom looks up from her cup of coffee. She's seated at the kitchen table, leaning on her elbows. Her eyes are blood-shot, but she's dressed and wearing make-up. But she still looks miserable and hung over.

"I called Fiona and told her that my mother's in the hospital," Mom replies. She takes a sip of coffee.

"And what did she say?"

"She said she didn't realize I have a mother," answers Mom. "And then she told me to take the rest of the week off so I can get my life in order. Her words, not mine."

"What a bitch."

"It's not personal. It's business," says Mom, rising from the table. She carries her coffee cup to the counter, where Dad stands, rinsing the breakfast dishes. He refills her cup.

"Coffee, Grace?" Dad asks. He acts normally, as if this is our every day life.

"I'll have juice," I reply and open the refrigerator. I take out the carton of orange juice and grab the half-and-half for my mother. I set it on the table.

She grumbles something that may be "thank you" and reclaims her seat. I pour my glass of juice, then stand, leaning back against the refrigerator. Mom slouches forward, drinking her coffee while Dad hums and loads the dishwasher.

"I've never seen you do that," I comment.

"Your father's been quite ambitious this morning," says Mom, somewhat straightening in her seat. "He's already been to the hospital and made at least a dozen phone calls. Now he's vying for the position of domestic help."

"Drink your coffee, my dear," says Dad.

I wait a moment before asking, "How is Gran?"

"Belligerent."

"As charming as ever, it sounds," says Mom.

I don't ask if Mom plans to visit Gran. I won't ever ask her to see Gran again.

The telephone rings.

Dad crosses the kitchen to answer it. "Hello, this is Hal Blume," he says into the receiver. "Oh, hello, Mrs. Porter."

Mom whips around in her seat to stare at him. I straighten to attention.

Dad listens for a long time without expression or comment. Finally, he says, "Thank you for calling, Mrs. Porter. I'll be right over." Then he hangs up the phone. "Your sister is looting your mother's house," he informs Mom.

"What!" Mom cries, leaping out of her chair.

"She arrived with a moving van fifteen minutes ago and the movers are currently loading your mother's dining table into their truck."

"Of all the nerve!" screeches Mom. "That woman isn't dead! She isn't dying! There's nothing actually wrong with her! This is typical Corinne. She can't even wait for that woman to be on her actual deathbed – as if she won't get everything anyway!"

"How did Aunt Corinne even get inside the house?" I ask.

"It's Corinne. She probably kicked in a window," replies Mom. "Corinne's in for a rude surprise – there isn't anything valuable in that house. My mother got rid of all Grandmother Vivian and Grandmother Aileen's furniture after my father died. Who wants her ugly white furniture? There isn't anything worth anything left in that house. She sold the antiques, she sold the jewelry. I should know – I'm the one who helped her carry that crap out of the house while Corinne was busy grieving like an idiot!"

"Nevertheless," replies Dad, grabbing his keys off the counter. "I'll take care of Corinne. You stay here. The last thing we need is one McCracken in the hospital and two others in jail." Dad heads for the garage door. "Call Susannah."

"Call Sue? Call the police is more like it!" says Mom.

"Mrs. Porter's way ahead of you. She already called them. Stay here." And Dad disappears into the garage.

We hear the car start and the garage door lift. Mom storms out of the kitchen. I follow her as far as the doorway, then lean against the frame and watch her swoop into the office. I start to feel angry and disappointed until I hear her pick up the telephone and ask information to connect her to Mrs. Blumberg's office. I return to the kitchen and finish my orange juice. Mom stomps back in a few minutes later and takes her seat at the table. She picks up her coffee cup and raises it to her lips, but doesn't drink. She sets it down and stands up and strides from the room again. When she returns she's clutching a set of keys on a navy and red SHS keychain.

"Mom!" I protest and hurry after her into the garage.

Mom ignores me and heads straight for my car. She jerks open the door. "Stay here," she orders, then ducks inside.

"But Mom, you – "

My mother peels out of the driveway, nearly hitting the Hill kids on their bikes, and screeches off down Locust in my Corvette. I run to the end of the driveway, but she is gone.

I don't know what else to do.

So, for once, I do as I am told.

I return to the kitchen and rinse out my glass and Mom's cup. Then I go upstairs to my bedroom and pace. I turn circles around the room.

I am interrupted by the sharp ring of my telephone.

I hesitate, but answer.

"Why aren't you over here?" demands Dawn in a rush of hurried breath.

My heart plummets.

"Over where?" I ask.

"Your grandmother's, of course!" cries Dawn. "Your mom just drove up in your car. I thought it was you, but when I saw her, I came inside to call you. Why aren't you over here?"

"I was ordered to stay home," I reply. I wait a beat to consider. "Why, what's going on?" I don't think I really want to know.

"Your mother just jumped into the back of the moving truck and is single-handedly dragging your grandmother's dining table out of it! The moving men are screaming their heads off!" shouts Dawn. "Oh, your dad just pulled her out of the truck. And now she's yelling at your aunt. Your aunt is yelling back. And now they're slapping at each other."

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

"I thought your mother would be more vicious than – oh, hell no! Your mom just bitch slapped your aunt! She knocked her off her feet! Now your mom's on top of her, pulling her hair! And your aunt just ripped out a chunk of your mom's hair!" Dawn reports, excitedly. "Granny tried to wrestle a lamp away from your aunt earlier. Your aunt is a mean little thing."

"What's happening now?"

"Your dad's pulling your mom off your aunt. Your mom is not happy about it either. Your uncle has your aunt now. He's holding her around the waist and her short legs are kicking! Your dad is trying to restrain your mom. She's strong! Okay, Mr. O'Hare has her legs now. Granny and Pop-Pop are still arguing with the moving men. Oh! Oh! Someone else is driving up!" Dawn shouts, not even attempting to contain her glee. "What is Mrs. Blumberg doing here?" she asks.

"She's Gran's lawyer, apparently."

"Damn! She looks _pissed._ And…she just dumped the entire contents of her briefcase on the grass. She isn't wearing sweatpants, in case you're wondering," adds Dawn. "Oh, my God! I think your aunt just tried to kick Mrs. Blumberg!"

"She better not kick Mrs. Blumberg. Mrs. Blumberg will have her arrested," I tell Dawn. Mrs. Blumberg doesn't mess around.

"And here come the police."

I close my eyes again. "Dawn, there aren't people standing around watching this, right?" I ask.

"No, this is a ritzy neighborhood. Everyone at least has the decency to watch from behind their Venetian blinds."

Great.

"The cops are out of the car," Dawn dives in again. "The lady cop is talking to your dad and Mrs. Blumberg. The guy cop just got between your mom and aunt because they were trying to bash each other's brains in again. Your uncle is trying to pull your aunt away but she's all riled up. Now Mrs. Blumberg – "

"I don't want to hear anymore," I interrupt.

"What? Oh. Sorry. I thought – "

"Thanks for calling, but I have to go." I hang up.

The telephone immediately rings again, but I unplug it.

I return to the kitchen and pour a cup of coffee. I sit down at the table and wait.

My parents return forty-five minutes later. I hear the Lexus roar into the garage, followed by my Corvette. The car doors open and slam shut. Then my mother charges through the door, trailed by my father. There's a bloody red scratch across Mom's right cheek.

"We should have pressed charges!" Mom fumes.

"And then she would have had you arrested for assault," replies Dad. "I don't care for the idea of a jailbird wife."

"What happened to your _face_?" I demand, rising from my chair.

"Corinne!" Mom replies, furiously.

I hurry out of the kitchen after them.

"I'm probably going to get a skin infection from Corinne's tacky ring!" says Mom.

"You'll be beautiful even if your face falls off, my dear," says Dad, calm as ever. "Grace, find some peroxide for your mother." He ducks inside the office and picks up the phone, flipping Mom's rolodex open.

"Who are you calling?" Mom demands.

"I'm calling our lawyer," Dad replies, punching out the number. "And then I'm going to find someone to fix the window Corinne broke."

Mom grunts and then takes off toward the stairs, pounding her tennis shoes hard on each step. I run up after her. She goes into her bedroom and I hear her thundering around in the bathroom. I find a bottle of peroxide underneath the sink in the guest bath. I go into my own bathroom for cotton balls and call for my mother that I found what she needs.

Eventually, she comes into my room.

"Sit down," I command.

She sighs and rolls her eyes, but sits down on the edge of the bed. "I can do it myself," she tells me.

I unscrew the top of the bottle and ignore her. I wet a cotton ball and dab it along the length of her scratch. She doesn't wince or pull away.

"Aunt Corinne did this?" I ask.

"She turned her wedding ring around before she slapped me," answers Mom. "She's a vindictive…."

And then Mom says something that causes me to gasp and my eyebrows to shoot up.

"Mom!"

"It seemed fitting," she says and touches her face.

"Don't touch it!" I scold and dab at it some more.

"She had to go for my face," says Mom. "Not my knees, not my breasts, my _face_." Mom sighs. "I really must find a new plastic surgeon now."

"It's not that deep," I assure her. I turn her head this way and that. "You'll live."

Mom grunts.

I close the bottle of peroxide and toss the cotton balls in the wastebasket. I watch my mother, seated on my bed with her mussed hair and maimed face. My body swells and fills with sadness and shared disappointment. There is no anger left. I poured it out and all that remains is its aftermath.

"Aunt Corinne's on the wrong side," I tell Mom.

"I certainly don't want that maniac on _my_ side!" says Mom.

"She still chose the wrong side," I say. "I don't know how she doesn't know that."

My mother is quiet for a moment.

"Corinne sees what she wants to see," Mom finally replies. "Corinne is a lot younger than me. She remembers a different life. By the time she came along, my father wasn't beating my mother the way he did when I was young. He tired of that game and moved on to new ones. Corinne probably thinks that whatever my mother did to get hit, she deserved. Corinne is like that."

Aunt Corinne is worse than I ever imagined. She is the worst of all. She has no excuse for the way she behaves.

I sit down beside my mother.

"Grace, I'm so sorry – "

"You don't have anything to apologize for," I interrupt. I absolve her off all things regarding Gran, Aunt Corinne, Aunt Margolo, and the past. She owes nothing. "Gran's jealous of you, you know."

Mom glances at me, eyes surprised.

"There isn't anything the matter with you," I tell her.

Mom nods and places her hands on the knees of her jeans. She stares at them.

"I saw that Dawn girl," Mom begins, "standing on the Porters' front porch. I never want to see that girl over here again."

"You won't," I promise.

"Are you going to tell me what happened between you and your grandmother?" Mom asks.

"She wouldn't apologize."

Mom looks at me, her green eyes studying my face. She loves Gran. She loves her mother. And Gran has done nothing in return but fill her life with bitterness and resentment.

Mom reaches out and covers my hand with her own. "I never want to speak of this again," she says.

"We won't."


	66. Chapter 66

If I weren't already awake and dressed I would throttle Julie for calling me at eight-thirty a.m.

"Finally decided to stop ducking my calls, huh?" Julie demands when I answer.

"I have a lot going on."

"I heard about your grandma. Bummer. Want to go to the movies?"

"I have to visit my grandmother," I lie.

"How long is that going to take? We can go afterward. _Another Year In San Diego_ doesn't start until eleven. It looks hysterical. Have you seen the preview?"

"No. And I can't go to the movies. I told you, I have to visit my grandmother."

"All day? Is she like dying or something?"

"She cracked her hip."

"Oh. Huh. Sorry," says Julie and that's all the consolation I expect. "Emily is ready to make up. You should call her."

I snort. I have no intention of calling Emily.

"It isn't true, you know," Julie tells me. "Emily was only trying to hurt you." Julie leaves it at that, but I understand. "And oh, my gosh!" Julie exclaims, moving on effortlessly. "Kara Mauricio called Paul and asked him on a date!"

"Paul is dating Kara Mauricio?"

"No way!" laughs Julie. "Paul almost peed his pants! He told her that he had to wash his hair. I've never seen him so freaked out. Hey, if you want Paul to leave you alone, you should try to make out with him or something. He'd never go near you again."

"I have to go, Julie."

"What? Okay. Bye!"

I hang up the phone and go downstairs. My parents went to work today, even though Fiona Fee told them not to. It isn't surprising.

I eat breakfast alone at the kitchen table, then rinse my bowl and spoon in the sink. I stare out at the pool water glistening in the morning daylight. I imagine myself beneath it, down in the deep end, sliding through the shallows. But I tear my gaze away and leave the window.

I drive downtown to All A-Bloom, Ross Brown's mother's florist shop. I figure I shouldn't make a liar of myself, at least not to Julie Stern. Mrs. Brown helps me select a tall glass vase filled filled with pink stargazer lilies. She asks if I want a card, but I tell her no.

At Stoneybrook General, I ride the elevator to the third floor, where my grandmother was moved yesterday. I walk the length of the corridor with my bouquet of flowers held like a shield. The door to room four-thirty-eight is open and there's a slip of paper attached to the wall that reads: _A. McCracken._ I clutch my flowers tightly and step inside.

Gran is asleep on her back, her head turned away from the doorway. She has an arm draped across her chest and the other crooked above her head. She's wearing her blue silk robe and a white nightgown. Her carrot-colored hair fans around her head like a halo. She looks peaceful, not sickly or pained, the usual rosy-hue present on her cheeks. She looks the same, unaltered, the only difference is the setting, a private hospital room in Stoneybrook General's north tower.

I quietly place my purse on the bedside table and carry the lilies to the other side of the bed where a collection of bouquets sit on a table by the window. I deposit mine in an empty space between a vase filled with orange and yellow birds of paradise and a terra cotta pot of violets. I know before even checking the card that the birds of paradise are from Mr. O'Hare, the poor, misguided man. The violets are from the Porters. There are also hand-drawn cards from my little cousins, propped up beside a round glass vase of peach-colored roses from Aunt Corinne and Uncle Cullen. Then there is a tall, thin glass vase holding four cut blue-purple irises. I reach out and finger the edge of one of the petals. Iris is my mother's middle name. Fay Iris Blume. I search through the stems and petals, but there is no card. I wonder and I doubt.

"Grace?"

My head snaps up, hands jerking back guiltily. Gran's eyes flutter and she stares up at me from the hospital bed.

"Grace," she says again, voice soft, and tries to sit up. She winces and gasps in pain.

"Gran!" I cry in alarm and rush to the other side of the bed. "Lay back down," I say and gently press on her left shoulder, urging her to lay back.

"I am perfectly – " Gran begins to argue and attempts to raise up again, but another gasp escapes her lips and she closes her eyes and finally lays back down.

"Is the pain that bad?" I ask. I take the water pitcher from the bedside table and pour some water into a plastic cup.

"Not really," answers Gran, accepting the cup of water. She takes a small sip and hands it back. "They have me so pumped full of drugs I can hardly feel my fingers and toes. They're trying to make me complacent."

I set the cup on the table. "I'm sorry that I woke you," I say.

Gran waves her hand. "Someone wakes me every ten minutes to poke me or prod me, all day and all night long. Not to mention the alarms that keep going off and those noisy nurses out at their station. I can't get a moment's peace."

"How much longer do you have to stay?"

"Oh, who knows? The doctors at this hospital are such alarmists. When you're old and they know you have a lot of money, they'll try to bleed as much of it out of you as possible," answers Gran. "I am fine. I could walk out of this hospital right now if they'd let me. And not with that – " Gran gestures to a walker in the corner. "They tried to make me use it this morning. I am not an invalid."

"I don't think they'll let you leave until you use it."

"That's what they think."

There certainly isn't anything wrong with her mind or her disposition.

"Has Aunt Corinne been by?" I ask. I wonder at what Gran knows.

"She was here this morning, but she left to take Amber to a riding lesson," replies Gran.

I can't believe the hospital allowed her back inside.

"Have you had any other visitors?"

"Your father was here yesterday and Rita, too. Then Susannah came by in the afternoon wanting to file a restraining order against Corinne," answers Gran. She flicks her wrist. "Such dramatics."

She knows. She knows what Aunt Corinne did and what she wants to do. And she's ready to gloss it over.

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her to go away," replies Gran.

If my father didn't tell Gran everything, then Mrs. Blumberg certainly did. And Mrs. Blumberg is not as patient or as tactful as my father. I think she must have cared for my mother very much when they were young to put up with Gran now.

I wonder if Gran actually loves Aunt Corinne, or if she feels obligated to love her.

It isn't the kind of thing I can ask, not after all I've done.

"I brought you some things," I tell Gran and remove the tote bag from my shoulder. I set it on the bed and open it. "I brought you these magazines," I say and pull the stack from the bag. I bought boring looking ones in the gift shop, magazines about gardening and travel and history. Then I pull out a paperback with a shiny new cover. "And this is the last book on my reading list. I don't understand it at all." It's _Persuasion_ by Jane Austen and it's coma-inducing. "And then…" I dig in the bottom of the bag until I find the slim black tube. I hold it out to Gran. "I forgot to pack your lipstick, so I went to Bellair's."

"Thank you, Grace," says Gran, taking the lipstick and turning it over in her hand. I set the stack of magazines and the book on the bedside table next to a booklet called _Eas_y _Crochet For Seniors_ which I figure is from Aunt Corinne and that I probably shouldn't ask about it. Gran sets the tube of lipstick beside the magazines. "Grace, I'm glad you came," she tells me.

I don't look at her. I stare at the white sheet covering her legs.

"I knew you would come," Gran says and she takes my hand.

I finally move my eyes to hers. "I'm sorry I pushed you," I tell her.

"Worse things have happened to me," Gran says and squeezes my hand. "I behaved abysmally. Oh, Grace, dear, I am so apologetic for the terrible things I said to you. I don't know what gets into me sometimes. I never meant to hurt you. You are my most precious granddaughter."

I nod and bite my lip. I start to cry. My father is right. I do not hate my grandmother. I do not think she's evil. I love my grandmother, just as my mother loves her, too. We are both caught in the same trap.

"Why are you crying?" Gran asks and then I feel her hand move to my arm, her soft touch caressing my forearm and she tugs me down, gently, urging me toward her. I let myself be pulled down and bury my face in her shoulder, in the softness of her hair. I sob into her. She smells like violets still. I feel one of her hands rest on my back while the other strokes my hair.

"Shhh…" she whispers in my ear. "Tears never helped any of us," she says in a sweet and soothing voice. "Now it isn't a big deal. I am fine. I'm going to do all the things I did before. I forgive you and I want you to forgive me, too. I am most regretful."

I pull away and nod.

"Now you've ruined your make up," says Gran and she reaches forward to wipe my eyes.

I grab a tissue from the bedside table and straighten completely, dabbing at my eyes.

"I love you, Grace," Gran tells me, touching my wrist with her hand.

I think she's awful and maybe she knows deep within that I am awful, too. I love my grandmother and fear her. All that she represents for me, for what I may become. I wonder what she sees in me that she deems me worthy of her love.

"I love you, too, Gran."

Gran smiles, vaguely, a bit sadly. She removes her hand from my wrist.

"I never wanted anything bad to happen to anyone," she says.

I reach out and take her hand, entwining her long, slender fingers with mine. Our hands are alike, long and bony and thin. We have the same hands, just like my mother, too.

I squeeze Gran's hand, our mingling fingers, and look straight into her eyes. "We will never speak of this again," I tell her.

Gran squeezes back.

* * *

When I leave the hospital, I drive straight to the Bainbridge Estates. I park my Corvette in the driveway and hurry up the front steps. I slide the key into the lock, the key I stole from my father. I turn the key and let myself in.

The house is strangely quiet. No sounds of Brigitta vacuuming, no sounds of Penelope yipping, no sounds of Gran sweeping through the house. I wander the ground floor, checking all the rooms. The dining room table is back in place. I walk past it, running a hand over the polished cherrywood. I go into the living room. The coffee table has been moved, the legs not resting exactly in the indentations on the cream-colored carpet. I move it back. The pictures on the mantle are misarranged. My eighth grade graduation picture has always sat beside Aunt Corinne and Uncle Cullen's wedding picture. Now instead it sits beside an Easter Sunday picture of my mother, Aunt Margolo, and Aunt Corinne. My mother stares at the camera defiantly, one hand on the hip of her floral-print skirt, head held high. Aunt Margolo looks someplace beyond, expression blank, arms limp at her sides while Aunt Corinne, in a frilly white dress, poses for the camera, oblivious.

I move the pictures back.

I slide open the drawers on the hutch. I find mostly cotton and cashmere throws and framed photographs Gran no longer displays. In one drawer I open, I find rows of videotapes, each labeled with "GH" followed by dates. All the episodes of _General Hospital_ I have missed this summer.

I wander to the attic. I remove the key from my purse and turn it in the lock. I switch on the attic light and step inside. It looks just as I left it. The first thing I come to is the stack of boxes labeled _Margolo_, the boxes Dawn and I opened. The packing tape is still pulled off the top box, the flaps pulled open, Aunt Margolo's treasured belongings waiting inside. I close the box and press the tape back over it. Aunt Margolo should rest in peace, undisturbed.

I move toward Gran's sitting area, to her velvet armchair and tea service. There's an open box of letters waiting for her. I should burn them. I should torch them all. But it isn't my place. I have learned that now.

Gran's portrait watches me from the wall behind the armchair, eyes blazing accusingly. I tilt my head and regard it. I step forward to the armchair for a closer look. I raise my hand to the face in the portrait. The eyes are not Gran's eyes. The eyes are green, not blue. My grandmother's eyes are blue. I touch the hair. There are streaks of carrot-orange running through a darker red. The hair is not Gran's hair. I tilt my head to the other side, running my fingertips over the face, studying it. I run my fingertips all the way to the bottom of the painting. I brush my fingertips over the bottom right corner where in gold is painted: _M.M. _Margolo McCracken. Aunt Margolo was an artist. Her obituary said so. I take a step back and another to better view the portrait I accepted so easily before to be my grandmother. It is not of my grandmother. It is of my mother.

Aunt Margolo painted my mother. There are resemblances to Gran, the wisps of carrot-colored hair, the curve of the jaw, the shape of the nose. But the high forehead is my mother's, the defiance of her posture. I wonder what Aunt Margolo wanted from my mother. There is something about my mother that infuriates Gran and filled Aunt Margolo with a sense of longing.

And that is something I will never know.

I turn out the light and lock up the attic. I will not return.

I go outside and water the plants on the patio. The lawn is freshly mown and the flowerbeds damp. My father promised to have the yard taken care of. I check the flowerbeds anyway, stepping lightly through them, looking at the leaves and flowers. In the flowerbed by the swimming pool with the new crape myrtles, a corner blooms with purple-blue irises. I wave my hand over the irises, the petals barely brushing my skin. Irises are my grandmother's favorite flower. She named my mother for them. She must have loved my mother once.

"What are you doing to those flowers?" calls a voice from the patio.

I spin around to see Dawn stepping through the sliding glass door. She strides confidently toward me, blonde hair swinging, Birkenstocks smacking against the pavement.

"You left the front door unlocked," she tells me as she approaches.

"How did you know I was here?"

"The Corvette in the driveway was a big clue," replies Dawn. "I've been watching for you though. I knew you'd come here eventually."

"So, you're hiding out at your grandparents' house again?"

"Not hiding out. Waiting for you. You wouldn't return my calls and I figured I should stay away from your house."

"You figured right," I say. I think a moment before saying, "Look, I'm sorry for the way I acted. I shouldn't have yelled at you or called you a liar or chased you out of my house."

Dawn waves her hand. "I've already forgiven you. I've grown accustomed to the fiery tempers of the McCracken women," says Dawn with a crooked grin. "It's the red hair."

"And the incest and the abuse."

Dawn's grin vanishes. "I'm sorry," she says. "I shouldn't have told you."

"You did what you promised. We were partners."

Dawn nods and shifts her weight from foot to foot. "I guess you told your mom and your grandma," she says.

"Obviously."

Dawn nods again and then waits, waits for me to continue, to fill her in, to fulfill my end of the bargain, of our partnership. But I am closing up, shuttering, and she can't come along.

"I know what you did," Dawn finally says.

"You do not."

"Maybe not exactly, but I can fill in the blanks."

I don't reply.

"I'll keep it to myself. I'm a good secret keeper," she promises. She smiles a bit. "And they're not my secrets to tell."

I nod, but I can't thank her, not when I know what I must do.

"When I was watching your mom and aunt yesterday," Dawn says to me, "I decided to stop antagonizing Mary Anne. I don't want us to end up like that. In thirty years, I don't want to be rolling around on the grass outside Mom and Richard's house. I want more for us than that."

I nod again.

Dawn's smile brightens. "What are you doing tomorrow? My best friend – you remember, Soupy – comes tomorrow. Do you want to come to the airport with Mom and me? I can't wait for you to meet Sunny. I've told her all about you – the good and the bad, so she'll be prepared. Mom's taking us to Cabbages and Kings and then maybe we can meet up with Emily and Julie. We can go swimming at your house."

"You can't come swimming at my house."

Dawn frowns. "Why not? Oh, because it's Saturday? I didn't think your parents would care. They're cool."

"No, _you_ can't come swimming at my house."

Dawn's frown deepens. "What do you mean?" she asks in a small voice.

"You can't come to my house anymore. My mother said so."

"Because of what I told you?"

"Yes. No. Well, yes and no. She's not mad so much that you told me, I think, but that you know. She doesn't want people knowing that about her. She doesn't want to see you again. She has a temper and she holds a grudge."

"We can't be friends anymore?"

"I didn't say that. We can still be friends. I just can't really hang out with you."

Dawn wrinkles her nose. "Oh, well, _thank you_!" she replies, hotly.

"You're going back to California anyway. You're leaving," I point out.

"Not for another month!"

I place my hands on my hips and stand ram-rod straight. I do not waver. I do not relent. I stare her down.

Dawn stares back. She brushes her hair over her shoulder. She has a queer expression on her face, one I can't decipher or guess at.

"So, this is it?" she says. "This is what you do?"

"What do you mean?" I reply and the confusion in my voice almost betrays me.

"I told you, I have you all figured out," Dawn tells me. "I get you, Grace. I know why you don't have a boyfriend. I know why you have all these impossible rules and standards that no guy can possibly ever live up to. And I know why you don't have a best friend. You don't want anyone to get that close to you. You want to keep everyone outside your walls." Dawn pauses a moment. "I remember how you were with Cokie. I don't know what happened between the two of you to change you. But I know why you hang around goofballs like Julie Stern and ice princesses like Mari Drabek. You'll never get close to them and they'll never try to get close to you."

Dawn waits for me to respond, but I don't have anything to offer her.

"You come off like the most self-confident person in the world, but I've never met anyone so insecure," says Dawn. "I feel sorry for you, Grace, and not because your grandfather was a pervert and your grandmother's a nutjob." Dawn stops to wait for me again. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

There are things I want to say, but I can't allow it. I have to let her go.

"I'm sorry then," Dawn says and she spreads her arms wide. "I guess it's fitting that it ends here. Maybe you want to throw a tennis racket at me while I leave." And with that Dawn turns and walks away. She doesn't look back.

I stand for a long time in the flowerbed beside the irises, the only sound on this hot July afternoon the chirping and chattering of the birds in Mr. O'Hare's aviary. And I am regretful.

* * *

My parents come home early and park themselves in their office after checking that I am alive and not on the verge of another meltdown. My father orders sandwiches from a deli downtown and we eat together at the kitchen table with my mother on her laptop, dripping special sauce all over the keys. My father mentions Gran, but I don't want to talk about her. She is separate from this life now. Then Alla calls and Dad disappears into the office to talk to her.

After dinner, I go upstairs to my bedroom. I retrieve my binder from the desk drawer and remove the lists I've made about my mother and my father, my grandmother, Dawn and myself. I rip the sheets of paper into tiny pieces and drop them into the trashcan. Then I tear up the spider web diagram and the photocopies about Aunt Margolo. I toss those in, too. Lastly, I remove the torn pieces of Gran's blacked out photo. It goes in, too. I carry the trashcan into the bathroom and set it in the bathtub. I dig through the drawers of the vanity until I find a matchbook. I strike a match and drop it into the trashcan. I watch the papers crinkle and burn and blacken. I watch them go up in flames. Then I turn on the shower and put the fire out.

Inside my bedroom, I take off my sandals and return them to their place in the closet. I find my mother's green snakeskin stilettos. I slip into them and teeter awkwardly toward the full-length mirror. I stand before it in my jean shorts and lilac-colored fitted tee and my mother's stilettos. I take a few wobbly steps backward. I hold back my shoulders and stare straight ahead, stone-faced and defiant, and stride toward the mirror.

I start a new list.

I have my binder open on my bed, a blue ink pen resting on a fresh page as I turn the pages of last year's yearbook. There's a knock on the open door and when I glance up, Mari stands there.

"Your dad let me in," she explains. She has her dishwater blonde hair twisted into a bun with chopsticks sticking out the top. She isn't wearing her glasses. She looks better than I've seen her look in awhile, fresher somehow.

"I didn't hear the door," I reply.

"Can I come in?" she asks and hesitantly steps inside the room without waiting for an answer. She stops near where I sit on the bed and crosses her legs, holding her hands behind her back. "Pastor Chad says you're having a crisis of faith and I should be supportive of you," she informs me. Pastor Chad is our youth pastor.

"Is that supposed to be an apology?"

Mari shrugs.

"Thank you," I say.

"I saw Dawn downtown yesterday and she told me about Mrs. McCracken. I have something for her." Mari takes the paisley-print cloth bag off her back and opens it. She takes out a card and extends it to me. I take it. It's hand-painted in watercolors, muted colored flowers surrounding an elaborate cross beneath a hand-written calligraphy greeting. "Will you give it to her? She's always been so sweet about letting us play tennis at her house."

Mari thinks my grandmother is sweet.

I nod and open the card. Mari has written a bible verse in swirling letters, as elaborate and labored as her cross. This is my apology.

"Thank you," I say again.

Mari sits down on the bed with the binder and yearbook between us. "Why are you looking at your yearbook?" she asks. "Don't look at page eighty-four. I look a horror."

"I'm studying it," I reply and I turn back a page in my binder. I show her the notes I've made, printed out neatly in blue ink. "I want to be Homecoming Queen."

Mari reads my notes and nods. "No one will vote for that tramp Dorianne this year," she assures me. "You're the prettiest girl in the class. You should be the queen."

I smile at her. It doesn't matter why she chose me over Cokie. It doesn't matter that she chose me at all. It matters that she keeps coming back.

"I think I'm going to do my entire campaign in the color green," I tell Mari, indicating that particular note on my list.

"But your favorite color is purple."

"I like green, too."

"It's a good color because of your hair," Mari agrees. "I'll help design your campaign posters. I took a photography class at the community center a couple summers ago. I'm a lot more talented than that dweeby Rick Chow from the _Gazette_."

I add that to the clean sheet of paper.

Mari watches me and when I'm done, she says, "It's been a crummy summer."

I nod in agreement.

"I shouldn't have gotten so mad at you. It wasn't very Christian of me," continues Mari. "I just can't stand my parents right now. They're hypocrites. They're making a mockery of our church. My mom because of what she does and my dad because he thinks she's right. I feel like I'm drowning, you know?"

I nod once more.

"Was your grandmother drunk?" she asks, not looking at me. "When she fell?"

"Gran doesn't drink."

"Oh. I wasn't sure."

Then Mari lets it drop.

"I think church may be the best place for hypocrites," I tell Mari, thinking of her parents, thinking of Gran. "Maybe they'll learn something."

"Maybe. Or drag the rest of us down," says Mari, pulling at a thread on the bedspread.

"I'm a bad person," I say to Mari. "I have a black heart."

Mari gazes at me sympathetically. If she knew the things I've done, she wouldn't like me. She wouldn't be my friend. No one would be my friend. I have secrets and they are shameful and dark.

"You need to come to church then. You need to pray for Him to change your heart," Mari informs me. "He will change it when He decides you are worthy." Mari takes my hands in hers. "I will pray with you now," she says. She closes her eyes and bows her head. I do the same.

* * *

Mari has left.

I put away my binder and my yearbook. I take out the trash. I dust and polish the trophies in my case. I slide my copy of _Persuasion_ into my purse along with a notebook and two new pens. I lay out my clothes – my black capri pants and my black shirt with the criss-cross straps. I set my black-heeled sandals on the floor beside them. I am ready for tomorrow.

I go out into the hallway and sit at the top of the stairs. I draw up my knees and fold my arms across them. Downstairs all the lights are on. I can't see my parents in their office, but I hear them. My father's on the phone with Alla again, laughing, the ice clinking in his glass. I can almost smell his cigar. My mother's on the exercise bike, pedaling fast to nowhere, the sound drifting up the stairs. Their world spins on.

And I am alone.

THE END.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

_I never thought it would take so long to write this story, and at the same time, I never thought I would see the end. Thank you for your patience. I don't know if there's anyone still here who was here in the beginning (other than Chelz), but thank you for sticking with me and this story. I hope I wrote a story to be proud of. I am proud and I hope everyone enjoyed it._

_Thank you, as always, to my good friend Chelz. She is the reason I kept writing, the reason Grace and this story finally had an ending. Thank you, my most wonderful fan and critic. I owe you._

_And thank you to my readers and reviewers. And thank you to my LJ f-list, who have endured years of complaints, meltdowns, and frustration. I think only four of you still even read my LJ, but thank you for the encouragement and feedback._

_I am likely finished with FFN. I think it's clear that I am disengaged from the fandom. I wish I felt differently and perhaps I will change. I would like to be back. If I am not, thank you for reading what I have to offer. I've learned and grown so much as a writer because of this site. _

_- Celica_


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